


Dazzle Me

by my_thestral



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 15:06:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 55,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18013172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_thestral/pseuds/my_thestral
Summary: It’s been a rough few months for Draco Malfoy who finds himself homeless after the war. Living on the streets with no place to stay and no solid promise of a meal ahead, numbness is slowly taking over, and every day matters less. Until he spots bloodyWeaselstrolling down the street like he owns the place! The sight of that freckled bastard brings feelings – and other atrocities – rushing back with a vengeance. How dare he win at life? How dare the smiling dork not care what he and his lot of self-righteous Gryffindorsaintshave done to Draco?! Or… does he?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my patient, kind and super-fast beta [Snarry5evr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snarry5evr) – this would be entirely impossible – and the result laughable – without her priceless help. All the thanks in the world also to the lovely mod for hosting this awesome fest and for granting me one extension after another! All the remaining mistakes are mine alone. And since I haven’t written anything for a fest in ages, I hope y’all don’t run away screaming.

That cocky _bastard_! Just look at him… _look at him!_

There’s no bloody justice in the world! Why does that simpleton Weasel get to parade down Diagon Alley like he owns the place, smiling and greeting people left and right, while I’m compelled to hide in the shadows at the edge of Knockturn Alley like a common criminal?! I don’t even have a criminal _intent…_ or at least I didn’t have one until that freckly freak showed up, and now my fingers are itching for my long-gone wand to hex the bastard! Even in my most charitable disposition my mood has an alarming ability to plummet at the sight of Weasel’s cheery face but in the current circumstances… well, fuck.

I’ve been an honest-to-God pariah ever since that bloody stupid war had ended, I’ll have you know! Not only is my wand long gone, so is my home because some _genius_ at the Ministry thought it was a bright idea to close down Malfoy Manor and stack an army of _“No entry or else…!”_ charms around the entire Malfoy property. Therefore, as the unfortunate circumstances would have it, yours truly is currently, er... between homes, at least until the trial for my parents takes place. 

The trial, however... hmpf! The _farce_ , more likely! That hairdresser’s nightmare, Granger, had the audacity to give a statement to the press that she expected the trial to be fair to everyone involved, imagine that! My parents are currently both locked up in Azkaban, you Gryffindor harpy; how, if you please, can they be expected to mount a proper defence in _such_ circumstances, surrounded by rats, rot and laughing Dementors?! A chance to have the Malfoy property returned to our possession is thus merely theoretical. I can’t see anyone on our side. I can’t really think of any circumstances in our favour. 

I alone have escaped prosecution on a mere technicality that my mother, before surrendering herself voluntarily to the Aurors, apparently threw all her weight behind: I was still a minor when I took the Dark Mark, and I’d done it under duress and in fear for my family’s well-being. I don’t know how it all went down precisely because when a horde of Aurors Apparated to the manor, I was immediately hauled off to the Ministry, stuffed into a dingy room that didn’t even have the luxury of a window – or a toilet, for that matter! – and guarded as if I was the next Dark Lord. It was hours before Weasel – of all people, the evil dolt! – showed up and told me that I was free to go because my mother had put up a convincing argument in front of the Wizengamot council on my behalf. It wasn’t until I got out that I figured out that I had nowhere to go. 

Even back then I had a good mind of running back to Weasel to tell the dumb twat to stop doing me favours because I at least had a roof above my head while I was in the custody of the Aurors. But back then Weasel looked kind of tired and grim – he did lose a brother all but a couple of days prior to my arrest – so I thought better of it, and I kept my mouth wisely shut. 

But now he’s once again sporting that stupid sunshine grin that makes me want to… uhhhh, I don’t even have words for it, but I want it _Off. That. Face_ , dammit, even if I have to chew it off!

It’s all his fault anyway! He’s as much to blame for my miserable fate as the goodie-two shoes Granger and that pompous hero-wannabe, Potter. Why did they insist on _winning_ a war?! Well, yes, He-who… V... Vol… _theBloodyDarkLord_ might have been a tad inclined towards offing Potter since he was a wee child – but couldn’t the annoying Gryffindor lot just lay low for a while, wait until the sour, old homicidal maniac hexed himself in the head or some such?! No, of course not. The rash bunch of idiots had rushed head on to _defeat_ him, very publicly even, so all his supporters could be rounded up and scandalously tried and… uhm, robbed of their home, for example. 

Prosperous futures were squashed under their inconsiderate bravery, you know! Take me: I could have been anyone I wanted! Perhaps a Minister for magic one day… well, that was my father’s dream for me, anyway. I would have prefered a title of an owner of a successful Quidditch club. Or I could have at least had my own potions shop here in Diagon Alley – which _might_ have been a tiny, fairly realistic if a very secret dream of mine. For all intents and purposes, my future was bright… but it’s all gone now. My dreams are all in ashes, and I prefer not to think of them; I can’t even _stomach…_ thinking of everything I’ve lost. It does wonders for my sanity if I don’t. 

So, I take it one day at a time. I’ve been reduced to living on the edge of civilised society for some time now, surviving on scraps of food some forgetful, sloppy or incompetent fool forgot to vanish. I’ve been spending most of my days hiding from nosy people, vengeful people, any _sort_ of people who would like nothing better than to gloat upon the downfall of the last Malfoy. Most of my evenings are occupied by trying to find a safe place to lay my head down until the dawn breaks. I haven’t seen inside of a bathroom in a while, which is just as well, because that makes me virtually unrecognisable. I can’t really go to any of the shelters for homeless wizarding folks either, in case someone _did_ recognise me and decided that the bloody war was exclusively my fault, and it would serve me well to make me pay for everything that went wrong with their life. Been there, done that, barely made it out alive.

My only fun these days consists of picking up discarded issues of The Prophet from the trash to find out if there is any news on my mother’s trial because… oh, because I like to delude myself that there might be a tiny glimmer of hope in that after all. 

That precious shred of hope, shiny and probably more false than fool’s gold, is the one thing that still keeps me afloat. My father’s fate is sealed. There are more than enough surviving witnesses to testify that he was an active supporter of the Dark Lord. He’ll be lucky if the Ministry finds someone brave, or dumb, enough to implement one of the most controversial reforms of the Granger Act – ew, what a name! – and kicks the Dementors out of Azkaban. Father had done foolish things, there’s little doubt about that… foolish and cruel, but he’s still my father, and I’d hate to think of him spending the rest of his life confined and tormented. Confined… confined will do. 

But when it comes to my mother… there might be some hope there, I’d like to think... emphasis on _might_ be, mind you! I never managed to talk to her about it – they’ve rounded us up fairly quickly after the Battle of Hogwarts – but there are rumours floating about that she helped Potter in some obscure way during the war. Sounds very much like Mother, if I may say so, she was always the diplomat in the family, and if she saw that things were going south for He-who… Vol-... _theBloodyDarkLord_ – she might have pulled a brilliant trick like this out of her sleeve. She was always the bravest of us all. My mother… I miss her… terribly.

But, much to my despair, all news about the trials has been kept extremely secretive; so very much so that it’s been driving me positively mad. You see, the trials are _never_ announced, just reported about. Apparently there are enough of Vol... oh, bollocks... the Dark Lord’s supporters still around that it would be a security risk announcing them. It seems that all the procedures take place in secrecy, behind the closed and heavily-charmed doors of the Ministry, and because I no longer have the privilege of a steady address, no one bothers to inform me about anything. 

So, there’s really only one thing for me to do: in spite of all the risks of hanging about the busiest street of wizarding London for someone in my position, that’s exactly where you can find me these days. Diagon Alley is the place to be when you are interested in catching rumors – any kind of rumours – either from the inebriated Ministry employees stumbling out of the Leaky Cauldron on Friday night or their bored chatty wives strolling down the street, window-shopping. No one ever notices the homeless person squatting about. I didn’t either until I became one. 

But to be entirely honest... this has been dragging on for months now, and the rough life on the streets, with no wand at hand, has begun to wear me down. I’ve noticed myself going numb of late. I can’t even… I can’t even remember when I’d last felt something. The hunger, the fatigue, the pain in my raw feet and bruised skin… even the spite and anger that have been driving me forward all this time – it’s all leaving me, drowning in this numbness. I’ve gone all dead on the inside. All of my miserable existence seems to blend into grey, dull days of surviving on the streets, and I care less and less every day. I reckon it must be some defense mechanism, good for something, whatever that is. 

But then minutes ago, I’d set my eyes on that one freckly face, on those freakishly long legs, hair red enough to stop the traffic and those ridiculously blue eyes – and it all came rushing back in with a vengeance. The shame of what I’ve been reduced to. The blistering anger. The acute, fresh sense of loss that makes me loathe and resent. Even the hunger is back. I see Weasel and I go _hungry_ , explain that, Merlin’s polished cock! 

Honestly, there is no God. No divine being would allow a sorry, freckly loser such as Weasel here strolling down the Diagon Alley with his nose up the clouds while I... Oh Merlin’s shrunken balls, did he just give out an autograph?! He did! He signed that stupid, grinning child’s chocolate frog card, and the kid looks about ready to faint! Sweet baby Jesus, this is too much. Kill me now. I wish I had something in me to vomit. 

And of course, that flame-headed bane of my existence is headed my way. I’m cursed this way. Luckily, I’m virtually unrecognisable these days, but I can’t risk it. I have enough sanity left in me to know that I can’t afford to confront Weasel and spew in his face all the boiling anger and bitterness that has suddenly ballooned inside of me to the point that it feels as if it’s crushing my soul. 

As much as I’d love to… I can’t. I need to keep my wits about, move out of his way, disappear back into the shadows of Knockturn Alley and wait patiently until he’s gone. He can’t be staying more than minutes. I need to-

“Malfoy?!”

Well, fuck. Fuckity fuck.

~

“Malfoy?!”

I can’t believe my eyes! After months of searching for him, _this_ is where I find him?! He’s been right under my nose all this time? It _is_ him, isn’t it? Yeah, I’d know that haughty demeanor anywhere. He’s bone thin – emaciated, really – and his hair is so matted the distinct blond colour no longer shows… and he smells every bit like an open grave, ew… but it’s him. Those are the same cold, grey eyes staring defiantly back at me from the dirty face, and even though his attire is hardly better than a sorry pile of rags, he somehow still looks… posh. How does the evil snot pull that off?!

“Done gloating, are you?” 

He looks at me cold enough to make me freeze, only I’m used to his disdain, aren’t I, and I might… uh, I might have been carrying around a tiny bit of guilt all these months, so for once, I’m willing to let it go. Look, I really didn’t know that all their property had been confiscated when I had him released, all right?! I didn’t! I kicked the bastard out into the street as fast as I could as soon as it became apparent that we had nothing on him, and I went about my business. Excuse me if I was a bit distraught in those terrible days after Fred’s death. Checking out Malfoy’s circumstances certainly wasn’t very high on my list of priorities.

Of course, Hermione shouted me deaf, once it became clear he was nowhere to be found. But, you know, Hermione shouts at me all the time, and I dare say my hearing has considerably improved ever since she’d returned to Hogwarts to complete her N.E.W.T.s. But I knew I truly screwed up when even Harry mumbled something to the account of: _‘You should have at least put a tracking charm on him, Ron. He’s desperate… he could be dangerous. And even if not… he’s got nowhere to go.’_

And that, you see, stuck with me. I knew how it was when one had nowhere to go. I still vividly remembered that bloody year of despair and aimless running from place to place while we were looking for Voldemort’s Horcruxes. And we were a company. Malfoy was all alone. 

So, I might have put a little bit of an effort in trying to find him ever since. As in, I turned around every rock and looked underneath, but the elusive skinny git was nowhere to be found! It was as if the earth had swallowed him – no one had seen him, no one had heard anything of him… until today. But now he’s here, and bloody hell, the giant rock that just rolled off my heart comes as a shock. I had no idea I’d be so relieved – it’s bloody Malfoy after all, and everything about him just screams: _I hate you!_

“’m not gloating,” I mumble, already irritated, and I barely swallow _“you arse”_. Old habits die hard, but I can’t afford to lose him now so I have to at least try and curb my temper. 

“Yes, I’m certain you’re looking at me as if you wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole because you want to ask me out for tea,” he spits out with cold indignation. 

“That’s because you smell like a basket of rotten fish,” flies out of my big, rash mouth, and the sudden spark of white-hot fury in his eyes instinctively makes my hand snap around my wand.

“And whose fault is that, huh?!” he barks viciously through gritted teeth. “You and your bloody lot have robbed me of everything! You threw me out on the street like a lame crup, knowing that I had nowhere to go-”

“I didn’t know,” I interrupt him hastily because this is the _one_ record I’m somehow _very_ interested in setting straight. “I swear I didn’t. I...”

“Oh, do play a saint some more, Weaselbee, go on! Like it would have mattered to you one bit!” he seethes, and the wrath in his steely eyes is so cold he looks eerily like his own father, difference in attire be damned. “You couldn’t wait to see me shunned… broken… humiliated… You couldn’t…”

You know what – fuck it! With all the effort I put in trying to find him, the ungrateful git doesn’t even have the decency to hear me out… And on top of that, he looks just enough like his evil father that he brings out the worst in me.

“Oh, do stop whining, you spoiled brat!” I erupt. “A little dirt never killed anyone and you’re still alive, aren’t you?! Which is more than a fair number of people can say after that bloody war you’ve cooked up, you and yours! If I could ignore my decency for a bit, I would have told you that you only got what you had coming – for years even! – you obnoxious snot! But as it is, I’ll have you know that it was a god-honest mistake to let you go that evening and that I’ve spent countless hours looking for you since, but a thankless little shit you are-”

“I’d love to trade insults some more, Weaselbee,” he interrupts me quietly, venomously, with searing hatred still raging in his eyes. “But one of us needs to find shelter for the night, and I’m sure you’ve got a Potter’s or Granger’s lap to cosy up to. As fun as this has been…”

He turns around to walk away and I… shit. I really blew it, didn’t I?! This bloody temper of mine, seriously… If Hermione finds out that I’ve found him, and then lost him again… or if Harry does...

“Wait, just _wait_ , goddammit…” I have to swallow _“you dumb, blond prat”_ again. But he doesn’t, and his thin, ghost-like figure is quickly disappearing into the shadows of Knockturn alley. So, I’ve really got no choice, it’s all or nothing now, and I hope it’s enough because I can’t afford to lose him again. 

“Don’t you want to know when your mother’s trial is?” I blurt out, and it’s as if I threw a brick at his feet: he stops instantly. He doesn’t turn around immediately but I’m too relieved to care: I got him to stop, and I can’t afford to blunder again. It’s not only that I’m _really_ not looking forward to a fresh bout of Hermione’s howls or to seeing Harry’s poorly concealed annoyance at my recklessness, it’s also that… uhh, I haven’t been sleeping right ever since I’d tossed him out into the unknown, all right? I’ve even dreamed of him a few times, believe it or not, and how godawful mental is _that_?!

His shoulders sag almost imperceptibly and he turns halfway, almost as if he doesn’t really want to. 

“Well?” he says stiffly. “Is that just some innovative method of more taunting or… or are you actually going to...” 

His voice quivers just a tiny bit before he looks at me sharply “... tell me something useful?” he finishes quietly, and the swirling blend of emotions is turning his eyes silver, rendering me speechless.

There’s still hatred there, and mistrust, oh yeah, plenty of that – but there’s also a tiny glimmer of heartbreaking, almost childlike hope and I just… yeah. Fuck off, I can’t even begin to explain what I’m feeling right now. But I did that to him and I… have to fix it.

“I can do better than that,” I tell him, and my voice sounds strangely gruff. “It’s in a week. And, if we can get you sorted out in that time, I can get you in.”

His jaw nearly unhinges, but he collects himself in a blink of an eye and his mouth presses together angrily. His eyes narrow and he’s looking at me with the familiar mixture of mistrust and malice. I honestly can’t think of what I could have done now to deserve it.

“And why would you do that?!” he snaps at me. “Who put you up to this? Granger, is it? She’s always been the brains behind your shady intrigues. Potter? Eager to have me spill the goods on everyone I ever knew, so he’d end up looking more the hero!? And _you_!! Why should I trust you?! You people cost me everything! Every bloody thing I ever owned, everything I ever was, everything I was meant to be! _Everything!_ And still you want more! You’re not beyond using my current circumstances against me for your gain! I bet your _generous_ offer doesn’t come for free! What would you want from me in return for your generosity, eh, you freckled freak?!”

There’s such savage, untamed hatred in his eyes now that I gulp down quietly. I’m not afraid of him, it’s not that. He barely weighs more than a fairy’s wing and he’s got no wand on him. It’s just that… why does he hate me so? I mean, I don’t _like_ him, never did, and I’ve spent most of my adolescence dreaming of planting my foot in his gob but this, here… I suppose I just don’t like going around knowing that I’ve made someone loathe me so very much. And he might be just a little bit right. He did lose everything. Not because of us, no… but we were involved. If I had lost it all, perhaps this sickening wrath would be poisoning _me_ from the inside. He… he could very well be me. For some reason, this thought makes my heart sink.

“You’re right,” I tell him and look him in the eye. “I do want something from you. I want you to save me.”

And because my long arms are a bloody brilliant evolutionary achievement, I grab him by the dirty, bony shoulders and pull him closer before he could fight, curse or hate me some more – and then I Disapparate us both. I meant what I’d said: I can’t afford to lose him again.


	2. Chapter 2

That _scum_! Oh, I’m _so_ going to murder the freckled scarecrow and tear his freakishly long arms off! How _dare_ he?! He’s kidnapped me! In broad daylight! In front of witnesses! I’m going to sue _and_ murder him, not necessarily in that order! How dare he put those… buffoonishly big and ridiculously warm hands on me?! 

Oh God, but it’s the first time someone’s touched me in months, deliberately and voluntarily, and the way his hands lock on my ice-cold skin, holding me firmly, steadying me, protecting me, spreading golden heat and an absurd sense of comfort down my body, sets off a rush of conflicting feelings that hit me like a Bludger to the head. _I’ve missed this._ Merlin, how I’ve missed the human touch, and I never knew… I’ve always had a strange aversion to being touched, but right now the enchanting buzz of magic emanating from the warm surface of Weasley’s hands literally makes my knees rattle. The sense of need and longing that floods through me, drowning me, and making me gasp, is nothing short of devastating. 

For a brief moment of Apparition I allow myself to give into the heady sensation – only because it’s safer this way, yeah? I can’t afford to be splinched on top of everything else! – and I… I’ll never forgive him. How dare he give me hope… be nice… and everything… 

“Take your bloody hands off me!” I screech the second the world stops spinning, and only when the firm grip disappears from my shoulders, leaving only the pools of quickly disappearing warmth and magic behind, I realise that was a mistake. I haven’t eaten in… oh, I can’t remember how long, and the leaden exhaustion that finally found its way into my limbs, makes me entirely unfit for the stressful process of Apparating. I stumble almost immediately. The solid, warm hands snap back to my shoulders instantly, and I hate myself for how grateful I am. I’d be better off hitting the floor! Regardless of my despicable circumstances, I’m still a Malfoy, I bet I could do it with grace!

“I said, take your hands off me...” I hear myself repeat stubbornly, but it comes out faint and unpersuasive, like the words of a petulant child who’s standing his ground with no good reason. 

“Would gladly do so,” he says dryly with only a hint of irritation in his voice, but he shows no will to humour my request. “God knows there must be a couple of deadly sins around less dirty than you, you prat. But I don’t want your brittle bones shattering all over my floor, do I? Harry and I just put the new floorboards in so this place looks less of a dump. Now, in here with you, and don’t bother coming out until you’ve had a good scrub!”

And just like that, that conceited Gryffindor airhead lifts me – I swear to God he does! – and transports me through the door on the left, slamming it behind me. I take a big breath to start howling at the brute when… oh. _Oh._ _A bathroom._ And I’m in it.

I haven’t seen that in a while, have I said so? And it’s not some shabby hole-in-the-wall with plaster peeling off either! Granted, it’s not big, but it’s a _proper_ one with blue tiles at the bottom, magically blending into the sunset-coloured ones at the top so it looks as if I’m standing on the summer beach. And the toilet is _clean_ , as in… pristine! And the sink looks new… well, at least it isn’t chipped, not even one bit! It also has a funny little bathtub with a shower-head peeking out from behind the most atrocious shower curtains I’ve ever had the dubious privilege to lay my eyes on. They’re _orange_ , you see. As in, bright, seizure-inducing, million-shades of orange – and besides nearly blinding me, they also fairly quickly remind me of exactly where I am: at the heart of the enemy territory. In the lion’s lair, so to speak. 

That’s it. I need to go, and quickly! This is no place for any self-respecting serpent to hang about. I’ll just turn around and barge past the clumsy Weasel – I bet he won’t expect me! – and I’ll be out of this cursed… clean… oh… wonderfully clean bathroom that’s permeated with a faint scent of sweet oranges… Oh, great – and now my bloody legs won’t move! My traitorous knees are rattling, and my rebellious feet seem stuck to the floor. And that’s not the only one of my organs staging an uprising. My eyes seem glued to the tempting bathtub, and before I know it, my greedy, dirty fingers are already skimming through the many colourful bottles of toiletries as if they can’t believe I’ve been given a chance of normality. 

It’s all there: the soothingly-green bottle of birch shampoo, the orange-and-lime soap, something minty called "shaving cream" and even a lavender bath oil. Oh fuck off! Yes, I’ve smelled them all, god-dammit, every last one of them, and every precious bottle seems to call my name like a Siren. Perhaps I could… just this once… I’m so very cold and tired, and my skin is peeling in places I don’t even want to name. 

Oh, I bet that violent ginger troll won’t even let me leave unless he at least hears the water running! And as a Malfoy I’m expected to make the best of the given circumstances, however unfortunate – so perhaps I just… should. I bet a few minutes of purposeful contemplating in a bathtub full of hot water would do wonders for my ability to think clearly and devise a plan to run away from the clutches of the ginger madman. Oh, who am I kidding? My hands are busy removing my clothes with a speed that speaks volumes of how little I care for my pride’s rational arguments and how very eager I am to experience some good old-fashioned cleanliness and warmth once more.

Once my torn shoes are removed, I’m surprised to find out that the floor under my bare feet seems to be warm – compensating for your poverty much, Weasel?! Not even the Malfoy Manor has luxury like the floor heating – but after this superb experience I’m definitely ready to consider remodelling… that is, if I ever see the grand, ancient bathroom of my ancestors again. I decide to take a shower first because I’ve just gotten a first proper look at my less-than-prim naked body in months, almost vomited, and promptly decided that I can’t possibly lie in my own filth, not even for a minute. 

The spray of warm water feels simply… oh, God… divine. Merlin, what an exquisite pleasure! As I wash months of grime and dirt off my skin, despairing over the sad state of my skeletal form, all but inhaling the sweet scent of soap and struggling with massaging the herbal shampoo into my sticky scalp, I deliberately refuse to think of who’s the source behind these precious moments of joy. They’re simply too good to be tainted by the memory of garish red hair and a _“you love this, don’t you?”_ smirk on the freckled face. I will not allow myself to think… especially not of _Weasel_ , and _especially_ not while I’m taking the most beautiful shower in my life, no, yuck, never! 

I wonder what he wants with me, though? He practically kidnapped me at broad daylight, in the middle of the busiest street of the wizarding London, threw false – it’s got to be false, what else?! – hope at me and garbled something about saving him, the troglodyte that he is… Merlin knows what goes on in one’s head when there are practically flames coming out of it! And he said he was looking for me… yeah, like that was ever a thing… that bushy bitch Granger probably told him what to say – though I doubt she’d be able to come up with nonsense like that. She’s got actual _brains_ as opposed to Weaselbee. He’s all flaming hair, angry blue eyes, miles of freckled creamy skin, warm to the touch… _and what, if you please, is my fucking hand doing wrapped around my swollen cock?! Good Lord, have mercy!_

Perhaps this shower is hexed! It’s giving me thoughts! Mad, savage thoughts, entirely unfit for a Malfoy! For most of my exile I haven’t even been aware that I still owned a cock, but then Weasley locks me up in a bathroom, and suddenly this treacherous bastard of my shaft is jutting forwards bravely, like a drunken soldier, unfit yet ready for battle! Oh, but it’s been so long… And it feels ridiculously… _fine_ holding my clean, heavy cock in my fist, as if I’ve been given back something I didn’t even know I’d lost. 

Perhaps I could… _indulge_ myself… just a little. It would do me a world of good to be able to let go of some of the tension…I could use clearing my head a bit. I never was much of a thinker when I was horny. I’d have to do it quietly, though… but I can do that. After spending, like, most of my adolescent life in a stuffy underground dorm with a bunch of grunting, hormone-pumped Slytherins, quiet is my middle name. And since Weasel is in the next room, I… oh, God, why did I just _think_ that?! 

My stupid, stupid hand obviously thinks that now is the perfect moment to give my stubborn shaft an experimental stroke, and the simple gesture sends a stunning, brilliant charge of pure lust straight to the very pit of my balls. Seriously, my toes curl. Merlin, what have I been missing? There’s no going back from here on. The next thing I know I’m stroking my evil, dumb cock furiously and biting my lip not to whimper loudly because there’s bloody Weasel in the next room, with his brutish, big hands... and sun-kissed warm skin… and those sky-blue eyes that always light up in fire at the sight of me… I love firing him up, always did… those sensual lips open and hurl insults at me, and it’s all for me, mine, mine, he’s mine…

“Ron…!”

I whimper my surrender quietly, biting the mortifying word into my own flesh to stifle the sound, feeling my knees buckle underneath me as my balls erupt with all the pent up frustration and load after load of hot come that I’ve apparently been saving for this crushing moment. As I collapse into the corner of the bathtub trying to rein in my heaving chest and drumming heart, I haven’t got a single straight thought in my head. I thought I was over this. I thought it was just a teenage thing. I thought I’d stopped caring, wanting, lusting and longing for this… impossible... senseless, breathless thing only he can give me. I’ve always been… wired like this, much to my shame and hours of private torment that amounted to nothing because the next time I saw him my chest filled up and my balls grew heavy and I just… wanted. God, yes. So much. 

But I thought I was over him. I did. I celebrated every moment I could hate him, thinking that I’ve finally – god-fucking-finally! – left him behind. And yet he only needs to show up and I… Merlin, I’m a mess.

My head is all is shambles, much like my life. I can’t… think now. I don’t want to. I just want to be here, in the warm, clean, sunlit little bathroom all by myself, not-thinking. I let the warm spray of the shower do its work and cleanse away the evidence of my weakness. Then I lie back in the bathtub - which happens to have a nifty expansion charm to it – and I let the warm, soothing water cover me up. I lean my head back and close my eyes, listening to the drum of my heart, strangely appeased by knowing that he is in the next room, watching over me, and knowing fuck all what to do with it. Or myself. I’m just so bloody exhausted.

I wake up to the feeling of a big, warm hand on my forehead.

“Malfoy? Are you all right?”

~  
Look, I wouldn’t have barged in for no reason, all right? But once I closed the bathroom door behind him – expecting loud protests and snotty remarks about the inadequacy of the tiny bathroom of my bachelor pad – there was nothing but a long stretch of very eerie silence in response. I stood in front of the bathroom door for ages, expecting him to try and do a runner, but once I heard the water flowing, I thought I was on the safe side. Malfoys were one conniving lot but they were no fools: surely the posh blond snot had to see the upsides of a proper clean-up once he took a good, hard look at himself. So, I whistled off to the kitchen to fix us some dinner because the poor sod sure as hell looked as if he hadn’t eaten since the end of that bloody war. 

Omelettes with cheese and ham aren’t the most complicated meal ever but they need a bit of time to make, so I couldn’t really pay the bathroom – or its inhabitant – much attention. But once they were ready – and smelling like eggy heaven if you don’t mind me saying so! – I came to realise that there was nothing but the eerie silence coming out of the bathroom once again. No sound of water, no Malfoy cursing the paint off the tiles. At that point, I might have experienced a bit of, er, personal crisis – as in, I freaked out that I might have lost him. 

He could have sneaked out right past me while I was busy with those bloody omelettes, couldn’t he?! The sound of water could have been a clever diversion! Those bloody serpents were cunning, every last one of them, and I wasn’t the brightest… well, I was easily deceived! Besides, he had no interest in staying; it’s not like he came here voluntarily! So, uhm, by the time I _did_ barge in, I might have hyped myself up to the point that I didn’t even bother knocking. I was so certain that the bastard managed to slip out that the sight of him dozing away in the bathtub came as a proper shock!

In my humble opinion I all but knocked the door off its hinges – which should have been enough to wake up the deaf Ms. Wilkins living at the end of the street – but he didn’t even move. He was lying in the bathtub, scrubbed clean just like I hoped he would be, but so very motionless that a different kind of panic grabbed me by the neck. I mean, he couldn’t be… he was still alive, wasn’t he? 

With all the dirt gone, it became obvious how very pale he was. I mean, he was obviously always very pale – he was a Malfoy and they didn’t come in any other shade – but that particular chalky complexion wouldn’t look natural on any living being. This was not Malfoy’s usual flawless, translucent complexion that I, freckly as I was, might have envied a tad at some point during my adolescence. This was an otherworldly, greyish pallor that reminded me of a ghostly – and ghastly – appearance of the Gryffindor house resident spirit, Nearly Headless Nick. Frankly, with the sickly-looking skin pulled tightly over the gaunt face, Malfoy looked more dead than alive. 

And at that point, I realised I cared. You see, I never thought I would. Not about him, anyway. But I guess I’d seen one too many people die already, and, for some reason, the idea of Malfoy dying on me, in my care, once I’d gone through all that trouble to find him, was kind of… unbearable.

I nearly pulled him out of the water in a surge of panic, but by more luck than wisdom I noticed his chest moving in short, shallow breaths, and the instant relief that flooded me all the way down to my toes slowed me down a bit. I took a big breath, told myself what a dumb, lucky twat I was not to have gotten noticed, and I already turned around to tip-toe the fuck out of there. Only I didn’t, did I? 

There was something… disturbing about the skinny prat not raging and raving at the sight of me in the same room with the very naked him. It just felt wrong, almost like it wasn’t even Malfoy lying in that bathtub but some empty, earthly shell of him. Where was his combative spirit, where was the spite, the anger, and the derisive cold remarks? That motionless thing in there was not my Malfoy… uh, er, I mean, it was not the Malfoy I knew. So, I gulped down my embarrassment at the epic awkwardness that was sure to ensue if I was wrong, and I approached him. I thought I’d look extra creepy if I just stood there, hovering above the naked ol’ him – though there wasn’t much to be seen, I swear, he was lying in a bathtub filled with bubbles and suds! – so in the moment of inspiration, I put a hand on his forehead. 

Merlin’s burning wand – I nearly jumped to the ceiling! The pale skin under my hand was as hot as any working oven!

“Malfoy? Are you all right?” flew out of me in an instant, and I could almost feel my own heartbeat echo in my ears: I guess I really, really didn’t want to be stuck in my apartment with one dead Malfoy. It’s probably why it felt like the best moment ever when his eyelids fluttered open, and he looked at me with feverish silver eyes. He was alive, he could hear me. I could work with that. I could still make it all right. Fuck if I knew how, though.


	3. Chapter 3

His voice comes as if from a distance. I can see him towering above me, high above, just his warm hand somehow magically connected to my forehead. It feels like the only thing real in what is otherwise a very blurry universe. My thoughts aren’t too clear either, and they only trickle in very slowly, as if they don’t want to come. I’m so bloody tired I just want to close my eyes and sleep. Why won’t he let me?

“Want to… sleep,” I manage to mumble, and I’m content when he just nods in response. 

“You’ll sleep,” he says firmly, “but not in here. There are better places to sleep.”

“I want to sleep here. With you,” I hear myself babble on. “It’s warm. And safe.” 

I have an odd feeling nudging at the back of my brain that I shouldn’t really be saying any of that, but my thoughts seem to be wrapped in sticky honey, and somehow nothing but the truth comes. 

Something flickers at the bottom of those blue eyes for a second, and he looks properly shocked.

“There really is something wrong with you,” he murmurs, sounding upset. “I’ll get you somewhere warm and safe where you can sleep all you want… but I’m going to need your help. Can you do that, Ma… Draco? Can you help me?”

“Not sure,” I tell him honestly. “I want to sleep.”

“Yeah, we’ve established that,” he sighs but then his expression softens. “I know that… but I want you to do this one thing for me. It’s not much work, honestly. I just… I need you _not to fight me_ for a minute or so,” he blurts out quickly, and his cheeks turn the exquisite sunset colour of the roses in the Malfoy garden. 

“You look like the roses,” I tell him, and he looks at me as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. 

“Not sure if I like you better with the fever,” he mumbles, and he somehow conjures a thick white thing… a cloud… a towel from out of nowhere and hangs it around his neck. 

“No fighting,” he warns me, before leaning down. “This will only take a moment, and I won’t hurt you. And then you can sleep all you want.”

“Sleep,” I agree happily, and he nods.

“Sleep. I promise.”

A moment later his arms disappear into the water and I can feel them slide under my back and under my knees. Suddenly he pulls me out of the wonderful, warm water, and I whimper miserably. I don’t like the cold. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, carefully letting go of my legs to make me stand up straight… only I can’t, can I, because my legs are made of jelly, and my head feels like a hot-air balloon. My words don’t come fast enough to inform him of my predicament, so I just hang all my naked weight on him instead, making him groan. 

“Sorry,” I mumble, but it’s more a habit of behaving properly than the actual feeling of any regret. In fact, I’m quite happy like this, wrapped around his neck like nothing else matters. He feels solid and warm underneath me; perhaps I could fall asleep like this…

“Merlin, I never knew you were a hugger,” he chuckles nervously. “Just wait until you come to your senses! I’ll never let you live this down, you know that?”

“Your hair smells nice,” I tell him because it feels ticklish and silken against my face and it indeed smells like summer delight. I inhale the wonderful fragrance once again, and I mewl in appreciation. “Like summer… and oranges.”

“Sweet Jesus,” he mumbles. “You can’t say shit like that. Just… hang on for another minute,” he adds quickly, wrapping me tightly in a warm, thick towel that feels divinely soft and comfortable against my skin. 

“Wish there was another way to do this,” he groans. “But if I levitate you, all your bits will come hanging out, and you’re scary enough as it is.”

So, he just picks me up and carries me. Oh, I like this! I could get used to it. He smells nice – all manly and warm and clean – and he doesn’t complain about my arms still locked behind his neck. 

We only go a short distance, though. I closed my eyes when he swept me into his arms but I can hear another door open, and a short moment later he deposits me onto a soft mattress. That… I don’t like so very much.

“I’m not heavy,” I complain. 

“You’re not,” he agrees with a bit of laughter in his voice.

“You should carry me more,” I insist, and I flatly refuse to let go of him. 

“Merlin’s blue testicles! Dead-sick and still a spoiled-brat,” he murmurs to himself. “I can’t carry you any longer, there’s nowhere to go. It’s a very small flat; not like that manor of yours. Didn’t you want to sleep? Here you can sleep all you want!”

“With you. I want to sleep with you,” I mumble sleepily because, honestly, that mattress is the best thing ever, and I’m slowly losing this struggle. Luckily, my arms cooperate, and they don’t unlock right away. “You’re warm. I want warm.”

“Trust me, you’re quite warm enough on your own,” he grunts. “I could heat up those bloody omelettes I made us right here, on your forehead.”

But I’m no longer listening. In spite of his arguing, he makes no attempt to move. I realise that I’ve won when the last thing I hear is a sigh of someone who’s given up: “Oh, I suppose I could for a minute…” 

I drift off to sleep with his arms still wrapped around me, feeling safe and content that I’ve got him. He’s not going anywhere.

~

“Perhaps he’s in some sort of shock, Ron. He’s clearly been living on his own ever since you’ve… ever since he’s disappeared… and if he had to stay alert all this time he must have been filled with adrenaline! But now, when there’s no need for that, he came down crashing, _hard_. That’s got to be it!”

He was filled with _what_?! What sort of substance is that… adnre… adrelanine, was it?! Is there a counter-spell? Damn, sometimes I wish Hermione spoke English… I mean, proper, wizarding English, like other people. Instead, she’s down to big words again, and she knows very well how much that frustrates me. No one likes to feel stupid, duh. But then she looks straight at me from the fireplace, and even through the coals and ash her expression is serious.

“He needs to be moved to proper care, Ron. Best do it now.”

 _What?!_ No! He’s not going anywhere! I’ve only just found him, and… no.

“There’s no need to move him, honestly!” I say quickly, but my voice has a nervous tinge to it. Arguing with someone volumes smarter than yourself will do that to you. But if she thinks she can just command me to give him up… er, no.

“He just needs some rest,” I add stubbornly at the sight of her annoyed expression. “He’s tired, he said so himself…”

“Ron, you’re being unreasonable!” she barks at me angrily – and her voice alone sends a hot, angry wave of defiance to my head. You see, every once in a while, Hermione likes to remind me why she’s now my ex. Honestly, it would have never worked out between us. I still love her to bits, and I always will, but she’s not… she _can’t_ be the one. We’re not compatible. She can be as annoying as an untied shoelace, and she _always_ thinks she knows better. _Like right now._

I fire-called her to let her know that I’ve located Malfoy – wisely omitting the fact that I had to all but kidnap him not to lose him – and I might have mentioned that he’s been sleeping ever since. For 36-or-so hours by now. And Ms. Clever instantly threw a hissy fit!

He’s been sleeping rough, I know. He’s exhausted and weak and has yet to eat since I’ve found him; I know that as well. But that doesn’t mean he automatically belongs to St. Mungo’s, you know! That place is practically a prison! He’d have no one visit him – he’s got no relatives - well, none that aren’t locked up – so no one would be allowed. And God knows if they’d release him in time for his mother’s trial! And I promised him! I’m not going to listen to him bark at me about being tricked and deceived – uhm, on top of being a little bit kidnapped. 

Besides, I’ve been taking real good care of him, you know? I’ve been knocking off his temperature the way my mum used to do for us – cold wraps around the forehead and forcing some ginger tea with lemon and honey down his throat. And I’ve been changing his sweaty sheets every few hours because Mum used to say that hygiene is as important as any medicine. 

And I’m going to… uh, I might try to give him a sponge-bath tonight if he still doesn’t wake up, as much as the thought makes me feel… awkward. Hermione doesn’t have to know, but Malfoy’s been kind of... uhm, _clingy_ these past couple of days. He goes restless when I’m gone for a while so I have to come and hold his hand… And then there are the nightmares. I can’t do much about those, honestly, but when he’s thrashing and screaming, it seems to help… well, work wonders, actually, if I hold him. As in, lie down next to him and wrap myself around him. He relaxes almost immediately and… yup, Hermione definitely doesn’t have to know about that. But I bet no one at St. Mungo’s would do that for him!

Of course, she won’t be reasoned with. 

“He must be given proper care, Ron, immediately! Seriously, sometimes I don’t know what you’re thinking! Hasn’t woken up in a day and a half, hasn’t eaten in days, emaciated, exhausted, hallucinating…” 

All right, it wasn’t my brightest moment to tell her that Malfoy said my hair smelled nice…

“He could be seriously ill! He needs a professional to take care of him!”

Excuse me, but having grown up with Fred and George, I consider my health-and-safety-preservation skills as good as those of any semi-professional! I can’t tell her that, though. That would only piss her off more, and she’s being unreasonable as it is. 

“You _have_ to have him moved.”

Ah… no. No go. I found him, and I’ve been taking real good care of him! What part of that doesn’t she understand?! I’ve explained! In detail! I’m not going to have some dumbo at St. Mungo’s take credit for restoring him back to his health after I spent hours every day and night wrapped around him like a custom-made comforter! Why must she be so pig-headed?!

“Uhm, no. I’ve got a better idea, however. How about I call over Mum…”

“Honestly, why must you be so pig-headed?!” she screeches, and even through the ashes I can tell she’s desperate and infuriated. And there you have it. That’s why we’re no longer a couple. We only ever agree to disagree. Without Harry around, I’d probably let that troll have her when we were eleven. Especially not when she’s all harpy-fied like this. I already open my mouth to tell her to stop being an annoying know-it-all – yeah, we get all mature like that – when…

“I won’t go.”

JesusFuckingMerlinChrist!! I almost jump to the ceiling. 

I turn around in disbelief, and there he is. Malfoy is leaning on the door frame of my tiny living room, looking every bit like a ghost with his gaunt form wrapped in a big white towel. But his eyes are all silver and alight and no longer lackluster. He looks aware and alert, very much so.

“Wha-” Hermione and I both manage to say in unison before he repeats once again in a weak, but cool and composed voice:

“ _I won’t go._ I’m not going anywhere.”

Well, there you have it. That sound you hear? That’s the sound of hell freezing over. Malfoy agrees with me. Hallelujah. Now, someone alert the authorities.


	4. Chapter 4

Look, I can’t go to St. Mungo’s, all right? That place gives me the creeps. That was where they took Grandfather Abraxas, and he never came back. That fool Lockhart is locked up in there, permanently. The Longbottoms can never leave. That place is crawling with sick people and nutters, how’s one _ever_ to get better in there?! And people are kept there _for ages_ , you know. Who’s to say I won’t be among them? I’ve got no one to speak on my behalf if someone decides my health is poor, and I can’t take care of myself properly. I’d never be allowed to leave! 

And right now, Ron Weasley, as much as it pains me, is the only one that stands between me and such a sad fate. He won’t let the bushy-haired Medusa take me away, and I’ve got to back him up. Merlin, help me, I’ve landed in a life where Ron Weasley is my champion! But there you go. He’s… the better option. In spite of everything. Oh God, I can’t believe I’ve just thought that!

You see, I remember. Not everything – I was indeed _“crashing hard”_ as Granger had guessed – but enough embarrassing details float into my consciousness from my hazy memory that I’m… frankly, I’m mortified. 

I remember reaching out for him, when he wasn’t there, and I kept looking, hands and feet, until he showed up. 

I remember waking up for a lone moment, and his face was right in front of me, the blue eyes filled with worry, and a spoon of delicious, sweet liquid pressing at my parched lips. 

“Please, swallow,” he whispered, sounding a tad desperate. “It’s just tea, I swear. You need to get some liquid in. That’s right! Good Lord, finally! That’s so good of you! Come on, let’s do another one…”

Merlin, I… 

And then there was that moment last night when I woke up, fully aware, yet not quite certain where I was. I was pressed against something solid and warm, smelling delicious enough to eat, with another one of those solid and warm things thrown over me. It took me longer than a moment to consciously embrace the horror: I’ve found myself completely tucked into Weasley’s embrace. Yeah… I know. I should have been utterly shocked but I wasn’t. A part of me had it figured out. As it turns out, that solid, warm, deliciously-smelling thing my head was pressing against was his chest, and his arm was wrapped around me tightly enough to secure me by his side. His fingers were threading through my hair gently, as if he wanted to make sure I felt safe and relaxed. 

It was… unreal. In fact, it was so much like a dream, that I promptly decided that this was exactly what it was: a dream, and I, the fool, was more than happy than to drift off back to sleep with a big, delighted smile on my face. As ashamed as I am to admit it, I wanted nothing better. 

I was awakened by the sound of their arguing as they were loud enough to have brought a cemetery full of corpses back to life. And though I was barely in a better state than a corpse, the mean screeching of the evil Gryffindor wench that I should be taken to St. Mungo’s had me fully awake and alert, cursing my heavy limbs to move faster. Weasley was fighting my battle and he needed my backup. There wasn’t much time. She was his girlfriend, they both knew she was smarter, and it was just a matter of time before he caved in to her reasonable-sounding arguments. I couldn’t have that. The mere thought of those sterile, empty walls replacing this cosy small apartment, filled with colours, warmth and, uhm, you know, Weasley, was, frankly, unbearable.

So, I managed to get up somehow. I immediately felt faint and I nearly gave it up for a bad job when I saw black spots dance in front of my eyes. But I’ve been hungry and exhausted before, yet I still kept going and this time it wasn’t going to be much different. _Too much was at stake._ With that thought in mind, I grabbed the nearest thing to make myself presentable – which was a thick, familiar looking white towel – and I somehow dragged myself towards the door. It’s a good thing the apartment was so small, it wasn’t far. 

And here I am, playing my part of a fully recovered man as best as I can, though I’m hanging against the doorframe as heavily as any drunkard, and I’m trying to argue my well-being in a voice that’s barely more than a whisper. But _“the attitude matters, dear, not the raw strength”_ , my mother taught me – and the thought that there might be a tiny little chance to see her again gives me motivation enough to keep up the charade. I only need to hold on long enough to make Granger disappear. I can do that. Just watch me do what I do best.

~

“Draco! I’m glad you’re up,” Hermione recovers her wits quickly. She knows that she’s just lost one major argument – namely, Malfoy being too weak to walk – but she’s too stubborn to give it up for a bad job so quickly.

“Why? So that I can _walk_ to St. Mungo’s?” he asks with that familiar cold sarcasm in his voice, that makes me want to cringe… but it also desperately makes me want to laugh. Merlin, he’s so much better at this than I am.

“Well, now that you’ve brought it up,” Hermione says sweetly, “I still think it would be a good idea to have you checked out!”

“For what? For poverty? Check, you made that happen! For living out there in whatever-fuck-weather for six months – _six_ , you mad bitch, and you know what that means! Check that, too! And oh, did I neglect to mention a serious condition of you lot _confiscating my wand_?! _Check, check and check_!” 

Good God, he’s hissing now, and Hermione even looks pale through the cinders and ashes. And he’s not even done yet.

“Oh, perhaps you’d like them to add an actual diagnosis of _‘psychological breakdown’_ and consequential _‘loss of sanity’_ ,” he barks acidly. “Or perhaps straight out lunacy – _‘oh, you know that runs in his family, just look at his Aunt’_ – eh?” he imitates Hermione with surprising accuracy. “That would surely give them a reason to keep me in there forever! Perhaps then you can play charitable all the way to the end and give the Malfoy property – my property! – away for a good cause! Or raise your seventeen children there with Weasley!”

Hey, I thought he was on my side! And there were never going to be seventeen children, Merlin’s lame dog, ew, what a thought!

“However,” he gives me a quick, mean sideways glance, “perhaps you forgot to ask his opinion on the matter… as it often occurs...” he adds with a vicious cold smirk, focusing his attention back to Hermione’s image in the cinders.

Jesus help me, he’s a devil incarnate… and I seem to have made a silent pact with him. I have yet to defend Hermione. Only... I’m kind of out of air – and my wits – if you don’t mind…

But this time it’s Hermione’s eyes that flare to life:

“Ron and I are no longer together, perhaps he neglected to mention it? Or, you were perhaps _too unwell_ to have any meaningful conversation with your _Knight in the shining armour_ , as I’m informed that was the case! I wanted to have you _checked out_ at St. Mungo’s, not _checked in_ , you fool! And for your information, you…you, _pair of idiots_ , it was because Ron here has been eating himself alive after letting you go so recklessly. I reckoned he might not have objected to you _dying_ – but I guess I was wrong in hoping for a bit of _common-bloody-sense_!” she screeches loud enough for me to start looking around for canaries.

“It’s not my fault you couldn’t keep Weasley, you hysterical wench, don’t take it out on me,” he says with a lazy, cool smirk. “He was always too good for you anyway.”

Huh?! Er…

“I’m sure your intentions were as charitable as you say they were – but with all your screeching about _‘common sense’_ perhaps you neglect to acknowledge the fact that you were _wrong_ ,” he points to himself with a small, elegant gesture. “Yours truly is not unwell enough not to speak for himself – and I’m telling you, _I’m not going anywhere_!” he hisses angrily. 

“Now, do yourself a favour and get it through that thick hair-do of yours: the Wizengamot has established that I’ve done no deliberate wrong, and for what _alleged_ wrong I might have _unintentionally_ done, I can’t be responsible for it as an underaged person. And since I am now of age, not charged with any crime, you can’t make me do _any-bloody-thing_. I’m sorry if that ruins any of your grand designs, _Oh Ambitious One_ , but I decided to take my chances with Weasley here and there’s fuck-all you can do about it.”

He has? That’s new! So he won’t try to run? That’s… hooray?

“You know what – suit yourselves,” Hermione barks coldly. “If you’d rather waste to death under the care of your beloved Ron – who has no bloody idea what he’s doing, as usual! – than spend a few days in the care of the most competent medical staff in the country, be my guest! I’ll bring flowers to your bloody funeral, dead ones! And _you_ , Ronald!”

Fuck that doesn’t bode well – she only ever calls me Ronald when she’s abso-fucking-lutely livid with me…

“I thought you had more sense than this! I don’t know what’s gotten into that stubborn blazing head of yours but he’s clearly using your guilt and manipulating you for his own goals! Why else would he want to stay with you?!”

Er, cause I’m awesome? No? Sigh. Well, it was worth a try. I guess it was a stretch to expect my ex to see me in my best light…

“Because he’s been awesome,” Malfoy says behind me quietly, and I nearly fall face-front into the fireplace. 

“He bothered with finding me, when none of you wise-mouths did. He took me off the streets, even when I wouldn’t go-” 

_Oups._

“- but he was right to do so. I was at my wits end, Granger. I was days from letting that bloody life on the streets get to me and finish me off once and for all. But then he found me, he took me to his own home and let me use his bathroom – the first time in six months that I had a proper shower, Granger, can you even imagine what’s that like?! I don’t remember much after that but I woke up clean and feeling better than in ages – and it’s all his doing, yeah? So, could you, like, not sell him short _for once_? This one time will do. He deserves better.”

Bloody hell. Er… bloody hell. I’m speechless. And, what’s even more newsworthy – Hermione seems to have lost her ability to form sentences as well.

“So… I see…” she finally manages and her voice is unusually thick. “I suppose… I suppose I’ll just leave you to it, then. I will see you in court in a week; don’t forget. Ron, you’ve got the schedule, right? Right. Don’t be late. And look your best. I’ll check on you two in a day or two. And Ron… I’m so glad you’ve found him.”

I bet she is. Narcissa Malfoy vowed not to utter a word of testimony at the trial unless her son was present. And since our investigation into the remaining Death Eaters still at large is still on-going that woman has a good stack of cards in her hand.

But now Hermione is gone and the atmosphere in the room has suddenly turned all thick and awkward. I clumsily get up from kneeling in front of the fireplace, and I turn towards him.

“Uhm, I suppose I should-”

But he immediately waves his hand in an imperious gesture, and I guess my thank-you speech is cancelled. _Thank fuck.  
_  
“Don’t even bother, Weasley!” he sighs tiredly. “Not a word. I’ve said what I had to say to make her go away. She grates on my nerves terribly, and the sight of her hair makes me think of scissors and murder.”

Oh, all right. Uhm, so that was that. Classic Malfoy. 

“You can, however, fix me something to eat. I am positively starving,” he proposes with an infuriating smirk.

“I’m not your house-elf, you know,” I mumble, though I’m secretly glad that he brought up the _very neutral_ subject of food. The thought of that omelette I had to chuck into the bin a couple of days ago instantly makes my stomach rumble. 

“No, sadly, you’re not, or I would have been fed and properly dressed already enjoying my morning coffee with the latest Ministry rumours at the side,” he says dryly. “But you do owe me, big time, for that ode to your skills I had painfully engaged to perform earlier on to impress your g-… your ex-girlfriend. I must insist that some retribution is in order.”

“Fine, have it your way!” I mumble. “You practically rattle when you walk. I suppose I don’t want you to sound like a hollow can has rolled in when you dash into the courtroom next Friday. I’ll make you one of my omelettes. I hope your majesty eats such simple plebeian food.”

“Better than empty air,” he rolls his eyes lazily. “Just don’t poison me. Or better even – dazzle me, if you can!” 

Ugh, that conceited arse! I’m suppose to _dazzle_ him! _I’ll dazzle him all right!_ I’ll pull a shiny, greasy omelette over his eyes if he’s not dazzled enough! _Dazzle him_ , ha!

I swear that every time the posh butt opens his mouth I remember why I wanted to plant my foot into his gob back at Hogwarts. But then I walk past the mirror, and I nearly get a shock of a lifetime: _I’m smiling._ What the fuck do I have to _smile_ about?! I’m supposed to feed – and _dazzle_ , don’t forget that! – an ungrateful, self-absorbed Slytherin fart, how’s that funny?! Seriously, I might want to call Hermione back. I’ve gone mental.

But then I open the door to the kitchen a fraction, and I see _them_. _The devils._ The bane of my existence. The hairy Beelzebubs. And the real reason why I wanted to find Malfoy so badly. They’re just sitting there, in front of the kitchen door, glaring. Like the demons they are.

I very carefully close the door once again not to trigger one of those brutal assaults I’ve got multiple scars from, and I turn towards Malfoy.

“Uhm, remember that bit about saving me?”

He just lifts a pale eyebrow as in: _“This should be interesting”._

“I meant it quite literally. Could you please, _please_ let me know what sort of food these bloody beasts of yours prefer before they slaughter me to death in my sleep?”

I open the kitchen door, fully, and with a bit of a bang for theatrical effect this time, and out they come rushing at him like a pair of vile four-legged Azraels, and I see Malfoy’s eyes go as big and round as the moon.

“Wiz! And Lee! Oh my good Lord… _My Kneazles!_ You got my Kneazles!”

“Been taking care of the bloody beasts since you’ve been gone,” I tell him grumpily, while the lethal balls of fur roll all over Malfoy like he’s the best meal ever. “I didn’t even know their names, they won’t listen to the fuck I say. Lee and Wiz, you say? Wish I knew that! Well, your _precious_ Wiz and Lee gave me more scars than the bloody war! Even the Slytherin animals are picky bastards, it seems, and I can’t bloody find a single thing they like without getting scratched to the bone first.”

“Raw meat, still bloody,” he tells me, while scratching the puffy creatures behind their ears, cooing into their ugly scrunched up faces and looking more alive and alight than I’ve seen him in years. 

_Oh._ Well, fuck. That makes perfect sense, actually. They got exactly what they wanted with every meal, then. And I’ve got scars to prove it. 

“And Weasley…” Malfoy finally looks at me, good and proper, and it… uhm it kind of takes my breath away. 

“Thank you.”

Well, I’m still kind of shaken enough long moments after that to nearly drop an egg onto the floor rather than in a pan. I never thought I’d see Malfoy look at me like that. Like I was.. a…a God or something. _Brain. Fried._


	5. Chapter 5

_He’s got my Kneazles!_ Merlin, that’s just… I never thought I’d see them again! And he’s been taking care of them! Even Father could not do that! They would let Mother do it occasionally, when they were properly hungry, but they’re extremely mistrustful and they prefer to only take food from their proper master. Which would be me. And yet, all this time Weasley has been feeding them – and judging by the clean, neat state of them, giving them baths and proper grooming. Even if he nearly paid with his limbs for it. That’s… I… I just don’t have words.

I don’t know what that bloody emotion is, expanding in my chest like a golden balloon, filling the hollow space from my heart to the pit of my neck with its magic until it hurts. Gratitude? Happiness? Something else? Something… _more_? Oh, who the fuck knows! I’ve never known such a feeling before, it’s just… overwhelming… and _scary_. Bloody Gryffindors! They’ll be the death of me. 

I’m sitting on the tiny couch of the even tinier living room with Wiz stretched across my lap and Lee wrapped around my neck – and my eyes keep escaping towards Weasley like drunken moths to the flame. God, I only have to look at him, standing there with a bit of flour on his freckled cheek, mumbling unknown instructions to himself while he’s preparing his silly omelette he seems to be so proud of, his tall frame totally focused on the task before him – and the bloody feeling in my chest seems to expand some more, finding more room to suffocate me than I thought possible. 

I just want… I want to put my arms around him and drag him to my height… and ask him _why…_ you know, why he bothered finding me, why he bothered taking care of my Kneazles, why he’s doing all this for me. We’re not even friends. We’ve barely pushed past the point of being enemies. Yet, there he is, feeding my Kneazles, making me an omelette, feeding me pots of delicious fresh tea and lying… _ohGod_ … lying next to me when I need it. _Why, indeed?_  
He’s done now, and he’s busy piling a gigantic meal that smells every bit like pure, puffy heaven onto our plates. 

He stops in front of the table awkwardly, as if unsure how to proceed, and then he puts the bigger plate in front of me.

“Just take it slow,” he murmurs. “It’s charmed to stay warm, and I don’t want you delivering it all into the toilet bowl half an hour later. You look like you haven’t eaten in ages, so take it easy, yeah?”

I try the first bite and it just melts in my mouth. Just the right amount of lightly-spicy seasoning, the ham is clearly the best of quality and the cheese gives just enough substance to the airy egg. I think I might have just had a food-gasm. I literally have to fight the urge to stuff it into my mouth all at once and then ask for more. But he’s watching me like a hawk, and even murmurs _“Take it slow, you hear me?”_ at some point, rolling his eyes when I take a bit of the eggy aphrodisiac and feed it to the curious Lee. 

“Any good?” Weasley asks a moment later, and I... oh, I guess I just want to see his blue eyes light up.

“Consider me dazzled,” I tell him, and I instantly regret it: his freckled cheeks flush adorably, his eyes go brilliant blue, and the goofy, radiant, barely concealed smile strikes me straight into my overflowing chest, sending my heart into an overdrive. I’m such a bloody fool. What have I done to myself?

 

~

So, uhm, about half an hour, one shrunken T-shirt and Harry’s old jogging bottoms later, give or take, we’re still sitting there on my tiny couch like two bags filled with rocks. I think it’s safe to say we’re quite unable to move. Uhm, yeah… I might have made a bit too much to eat, but you can’t really blame me: I’m my mother’s son, and I guess it’s a hereditary malfunction. However, given the funny little fact that one Malfoy has been properly _dazzled_ , I’m quite ready to forgive myself. Honestly, my mouth just stretches into a smile at the sound of that word.  
  
 _Dazzled_. I’ve dazzled him. He said so himself. He really didn’t need to – but he did. I have a faint feeling that this means something but I can’t quite figure it out. Dazzled, heh…. Perhaps I should have that tattooed somewhere… Of course, without the context it would just look like I was trying to cheat on a spelling competition, but still…

I give him a carefully concealed side-glance, and, for some stupid reason, my heart speeds up at the sight of him. He’s casually leaning back onto the couch, his eyes closed and face perfectly relaxed, his fingers buried deep into the red-gold fur of one purring demon, while the other one, the snow-white one, curls its long, soft body around the back of his neck, like a priceless, regal collar. He looks so peaceful and serene, almost as if he is… happy… and at home.

I swallow and look away quickly. Seriously, what bollocks my brain just came up with?! He’s just tired, he’d said so himself. And of course, he’s resting. He does look kind of… uhm, _happy_ however… Perhaps? Nah, Malfoys don’t do happy. He’s _content_ at best. After all the hardship who could blame him? I can’t be reading too much into that. In fact, I shouldn’t be doing more of that creepy staring, he’s bound to notice and then I’ll never hear the end of it. But my eyes won’t be reasoned with, and they keep shifting towards him like they’ve gotten drunk and stupid in his presence.

He’s got a bit of colour in his cheeks now, after he’s eaten, and the ghastly pallor is all but gone. For some dumb reason I notice that his eyelashes are as thick as any girl’s and of a different, darker shade of gold than his fair hair. They’re throwing a long, purplish shade all the way down to his aristocratic cheekbones, and it makes him look strangely fragile and vulnerable. His hair is still too long and it will need to be cut - and probably styled – at some point before he enters that courtroom. Uhm, I’m not sure how to tackle that…

He’s also got a bit of a stubble across his cheeks, but anyone else would probably already have a beard growing down to their knees if they lived in his conditions. So Malfoys don’t grow beards, who knew? It would have to be taken care of at some point. I can’t trust him with a razor – or a wand for that matter – not yet. This is Malfoy, after all, even his Kneazles are sneaky, covert assassins.

“Do tell, Weasley, what’s with the staring?”

Oh, crap. I got caught. He didn’t even open his eyes; how did he know?! And now what?!

“You’re going to need a shave,” I blurt out in panic. “And a trim. Hermione said to look our best.”

Good Lord, what am I, five?! Why did I have to drag Hermione into this?!

“Yes, I certainly need Granger to tell me that,” he says lazily, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because I’m like, five, you know.”

Speechless. I’m speechless. Uhm, I just had that very same thought! Great minds, and all that…

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

Who? Me?! Uhm…

“Weasley,” he says with a sigh and opens his eyes at long last. “I obviously don’t have a wand – and won’t for some time, if ever – and I doubt you trust me with the scissors and a razor. So, either you help me, or I walk into that courtroom by your side, looking starved _and_ haggard. It would not surprise me if my mother attempted to hex you across the courtroom, wand or no wand.”

You know what? I wouldn’t put it past Narcissa Malfoy to try. These people are terribly posh.

“All right, get up then,” I mumble, not entirely sure what the hell I’m doing. “We’re going to the bathroom while there’s still enough light. But I’m warning you, I’m not a professional, so don’t you be throwing any hissy fits if it doesn’t come out the way you want it to!”

“Oh, no worries, Weasley. I wouldn’t just let you handle it,” he says with a bright smile, that spells seven kinds of mischief I’ll have to deal with. Oh God, what did my big mouth get me into?! Why did I have to bloody stare?! Kids, don’t stare or you’ll end up shaving snakes and such.


	6. Chapter 6

I can’t say for certain what’s gotten into me, all right? But he dragged me here, saved me from the misery of the street-life, took care of my Kneazles, and fed me… he even fought for me, and wouldn’t give me up even when Granger requested it. I suppose… oh, I suppose it left me feeling kind of rattled and all… fuzzy and funny-feeling on the inside. And then I felt his eyes on me, and I just couldn’t let it go. What was that all about? He didn’t tell me, of course not, and that has made me all the more curious. I still haven’t gotten any answers to all the _whys_ rolling in my mind. So, I’m going to let him do this; see where it takes us, perhaps finds some answers to the questions I don’t even know how to ask.

Besides, he’s right. I do need a shave and a trim, and I guess he can’t do much more damage to my lamentable appearance than living roughly has already done. As funny as this sounds: I trust him. And I have no other way of showing him.

~

“Uhm, are you _sure_ …?”

“Yes, Weasley, for the millionth time: I’m sure about it. I deliver myself to your capable hands. Now get on with it before those ghastly shower curtains of yours blind me.”

Now, that’s more like the Malfoy I used to know! Somehow this jibe at my shower curtains helps me relax. With this Malfoy, I know what to expect. So, it gives me a bit of a joy to say what needs to be said:

“Right. Then take off the t-shirt, please.”

“What?! Have you gone mad? I’m not taking anything off, you Gryffindor pervert!”

That pink tinge of indignation looks kind of cute on him, if you don’t mind me saying so, and the feisty flare in his grey eyes tells me I’ve got my Malfoy back. I mean, er, not _my_ Malfoy, you know, as in _mine_ , er, no. Uff, that came out the wrong way. I mean, the Malfoy that I’m used to. The obnoxious, screamy tit. That one.

“My innocent mind can’t possibly interpret what you’re getting at,” I blink at him wide-eyed in my best impression of Fred and George. “I merely meant to say that you needed to take your t-shirt off because it’s the only one that doesn’t swim on you, and we don’t want hairs and other shavings stuck all over it. My cleaning charms are kind of shit, to be honest.”

“Oh God,” he mumbles, rolls his eyes, but humours me at last. “Why couldn’t someone competent find me? There, happy?”

“Overjoyed,” I assure him, and try not to stare too much.

The pink tinge has spread through his entire upper body and, though he’s as thin as an autumn leaf, he’s also kind of lean – as if he wouldn’t be much bigger even if he was in his proper form. Without an ounce of fat, his muscles are very well defined. I gulp quietly. I guess living rough means being all sorts of tough. His torso and his back are covered with scars, some very obviously old and well-healed, others… not so much. There’s one angry looking one with a jagged edge on his back that I didn’t notice while changing his sheets.

“So, we’re back to staring?” he says quietly, but not without bitterness. “What’s the verdict then, your freckled Majesty? Pray, do share!”

“Shut it,” I mumble, and I can feel myself turning beet-red at his sarcasm. Merlin, why must he always catch me doing all these embarrassing things?! If I only had half the brain to stop doing them!

“This one needs taking care of,” I point out to the ugly, unhealed scar with cracking reddish edges. “Better put some dittany on it, or it won’t heal properly. Where did I put it again? Oh, there. Now, stand still, I know it will sting: I had to have nearly half of my upper-arm replaced with the bloody stuff after a bad case of splinching.”

Much to his credit he only winces once, and I almost do it for him once my finger touches the sensitive skin. I try to be gentle, I do, but I know this has got to hurt, there’s just no way around it. Perhaps it won’t work? Perhaps it’s too infected already? Oh, Good Lord, it appears to be working after all! The relief I feel is ridiculous. I look at him to point out the obvious improvement of the damaged tissue, and I find him staring at me in a most curious way. Almost as if he was a bit entranced with what I was doing.

“So, we’re back to staring?” I smile, poking him with his own words.

Something flickers at the bottom of the grey eyes before he looks away quickly and murmurs: “I had no idea you even knew what dittany looked like. You were always shit at potions.”

“Oh, like you didn’t help me, you know, _being shit at potions_ ,” I remind him pointedly. “You sabotaged me every way you could when we were paired together. You alone knocked down what little confidence I had a few notches. No wonder I barely ever learned anything.”

“Hanging around Granger must have rubbed off on you, then. You’re doing just fine, it seems,” he says with a small, wicked smile as if a reminder of his past mischief somehow made him feel good about himself. “This thing helps, so, uhm, thanks, I guess?”

“Stop thanking me, you’re freaking me out,” I groan, and put my hands on his bony shoulders to turn him around. His naked back is pressed against my chest and we’re facing the mirror in front of us. I’ve turned out to be a few inches taller and his pale skin is a shocking contrast against my plaid shirt. I plan to give him a minute to look at himself to check out what needs to be done with his hair, but he doesn’t move at all. He shows no interest in his hair. He’s just staring at the image of us as if he’s mesmerised by it. We do, kind of, uhm, make an oddly, uhm, handsome couple. _Of blokes._ Couple of blokes, that’s what I meant to say. _God._

“So, which one do you want to do first? Shaving or the hair-cut?” I ask him quickly before more mad, wrong ideas enter this befuddled head of mine. I sound strangely gruff and off-kilter, which is mostly the way I feel, so it’s nice that it’s all so well-matched and synchronised. Thanks, stupid voice. Thanks a lot, you dumb head.

“Shaving, I think,” he says without any proper interest in his voice, his eyes still glued onto the image of us. “We’ve got to do both, so…”

“Shaving it is,” I blurt out, just to finally move into action and chase away this strange, unbalancing feeling currently simmering somewhere at the bottom of my chest.

“I can use my wand or…”

“A razor,” he decides, sounding surprisingly certain. “We can always fix the details with the wand later, but the razor will do a much better job at this uneven mess on my face.”

I can’t help but agree. I’ve also got the third option, a Muggle battery-powered shaver Harry had brought along while we were sorting this place out, but I prefer not to freak him out with the Muggle technology if I can help it. Shaving is a delicate job and one nervous Malfoy could make it a lot more difficult.

“Put some shaving cream on, then,” I tell him, and only at the blank look in his eyes I realise that I’ve taken up more Muggle habits from Harry than I realised. Our kind still uses soap.

“Uhm, this,” I push a can of shaving cream in his hand and show him how to use it. His eyebrows shoot up in thinly-veiled surprise.

“Muggle, I assume?” he says while he’s rubbing the thick cream into his cheeks.

“Yeah, Harry brought it along when we were putting this place in shape.”

His hand stops, his shoulders tense, and his eyes immediately look for mine in the mirror.

“So, you live here with Potter, then?” he asks sharply, almost… well, almost like he was jealous. Why does he care?

“Yeah, like two people could live here without stepping on each other’s toes all the time,” I look at him as in: _where-is-the-legendary-Slytherin-logic-when-you-need-it._ “It’s barely big enough for me. Besides, like Gin would let Harry live anywhere but with her,” I chuckle at the ridiculous idea. “She’d found them a place three days after the war was over.”

“Oh, I see,” he says flatly, but his combative posture relaxes, and he picks up lathering his face with pointed interest.

What the hell was that all about?!

“I suppose I’m ready,” he says, but when I look at him, I can’t hold back a snort of laughter.

“What?!” he says with annoyance. “Oh, I’d like to see you looking dignified with tons of cream on your face!”

“Oh, you look plenty distinguished,” I can’t seem to stop giggling. “Closest you’ll ever come to having a beard… You put good ol’ Dumbledore to shame!”

“Twat,” he murmurs, but I’m roaring so hard now I’ve got tears in my eyes, and I can’t be bothered with his irritation. But then I look at him by chance, and he’s watching me in the mirror with the most curious expression, almost as if he was captivated by my uncontrollable fit of laughter.

“Exquisite,” he murmurs… and I must have heard him wrong. At least it helps me stop this ridiculous laughter.

“Wha-”

“Never mind,” he says quickly. “Can you get this stuff off, then? It’s beginning to burn.”

“Merlin, I thought I was sensitive,” I groan. “But you’re just made of first snow, aren’t you?”

“Only finest materials possible for a Malfoy,” he says smugly, and I roll my eyes. Seriously, he manages pulling off an arrogant snot show even with two inches of foam hanging off his face.

“Wipe some of it off, then,” I suggest, as I work on sharpening the razor. “You’ve put too much on to begin with, and you only need a thin layer for protection.”

He acknowledges my suggestion with a huff but follows it nevertheless. Once his sharp features are visible again, he’s much less laughable. 

All right, I managed to get the razor ready – and I guess we’re in business. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

“Now, tilt your head back and lean it on my shoulder. And be perfectly still, no matter what,” I instruct him, and I fix my left hand around his neck, just under his jaw, to get a better, more stable grip.

“All right,” he breathes, not even trying to object, and a second later that blond head with surprisingly soft hair slips into the crook of my neck. I’m… unprepared at how empowering the feeling is. I stupidly pay us one last look in the mirror, and the image of Malfoy with my hand around his neck and the cool edge of a razor pressed against the top of his cheek sends a ridiculous jolt of charge through my body. _Motherfuck_ … what was that?! I don’t need that!

I try to steady my hand and just… start working, not to think and overthink, but there’s something about the way the sharp edge of a razor slides down his delicate marble skin that’s just so… yeah. Oh, yeah… Merlin, he’s so wonderfully pliant leaning against me… all warm skin pressed against my chest… I never imagined the Malfoys could be warm but this one is! And my hand seems to know just what sort of treasure it has won. It is possessively wrapped around that long elegant curve of his neck as if I’m holding on to a trophy, my thumb gently caressing the delicate blue vein pulsing with his heartbeat like it’s asking it to play along, and I… I barely manage to stifle a moan.

Oh, for the love of God… of all the stupid things… I’m hard. How, when, why, I have no idea, but after five minutes of shaving Malfoy I’m fucking solid. It just… does something to me. The alabaster skin of that patrician face turning all smooth and translucent again under my hand, the silken hair teasing the crook of my neck, the weight of his body pressed against me… yeah, it does something to me. I guess I’m a right fucking sucker for someone willing to submit to me. Merlin help me. He’s the perfect image of that.

He’s got to know what he does to me, he can’t have missed it, but he doesn’t complain, and he doesn’t move away either. He’s watching us in the mirror with heavy-lidded eyes, and it doesn’t help one bit, not one fucking bit, that he doesn’t say a single word, but he keeps staring at us transfixed, as if he can’t take his eyes off the way we look together. And I’m afraid to have a proper look. I have an idea of what I might see. Hermione had a lot to say about the focused, hard look my eyes got when I was after something. She liked it, too. She said it made her weak in the knees. And now she’s gone and I’m stuck with Malfoy. Who turns me on like a motherfucker. Great. Just fucking great.

In a desperate attempt to make this whole affair a little more like actual shaving and a little less like a hardcore session of eye-fucking, I move my hand to his forehead abruptly, and I tilt his head even farther back, exposing his gorgeous, long neck in all its fragile glory. Brilliant fucking move, Ron. I have to bite my lip to hold back a groan, and I want to lick the shell of that perfect little ear so badly it makes my balls feel about a tonne heavy.

“Won’t be long now, I just need to finish the neck,” I grumble, but the sound he makes in reply sounds too much like a mewl and does fuck-all for my self-control. His eyes are closed now, and his breath comes shallow and quick. I chance a look down his body, and nearly choke at the sight of a perfect bulge that meets my eyes. _Ohholyfuck_.

So, it’s not just me. He likes this as well. But, but, but… he’s supposed to hate me! Why isn’t he hating me?! I could do with a bit of his acid barking right now to get a grip!

But what I get instead is the perfect curve of his bum slowly and deliberately brushing against my stupid, rock-hard cock, and a breathless _“fuck!”_ escapes me before I can help it. The thin fabric of our trousers between us is nowhere near enough to dull the assault of pure, raw arousal. It zaps me all the way down to my toes.

“Stand still,” I try to tell him through gritted teeth. “I could hurt you if you don’t. I could… _fuck_ …”

He does it again. His tight arse rubs against me shamelessly, and the useless razor just flies from my clumsy, shaky hand into the washbasin. It was either that or cut his throat. My hand is about as fit for shaving as a windmill right now.

“What the fuck, Malfoy?” I try, but it comes out more like _“Want to fuck, Malfoy”_ , and I’m so, so very hard right now I can’t bloody think… and I’m so, so very fucked. He still doesn’t say a thing, he doesn’t open his eyes, but his hand slips around my wrist with urgency and he drags it onto the beautiful, proud bulge in his pants, pressing it down like it’s some kind of emergency. And of course, my dumb hand does the one thing it was _not_ supposed to do and closes around its prey so greedily as if I’ve just found the most priceless Snitch in my lifetime.

And _then_ he mewls.

 _That sound_ … That bloody sound again. Something about it drives me crazy, and it’s nearly enough to have me shooting my load, _ohGodplease_ … But it’s not just the sound… _the sounds now_ … the needy, godless string of sounds he keeps making, it’s also the shocking bliss at the feeling of his hard cock under the thin fabric of the worn-out trousers, fitting so well into my palm as if my hand was made with the thought of wanking him one day. And I’ve never had anyone else’s cock in my hand, never, I swear… I never thought of it, I never thought I’d want to touch one… but God help me, I want to touch this one like I never wanted anything in my life.

And he won’t let me think about it, he won’t give me time to fucking breathe before he starts to rock against the palm of my hand – gently at first as if he’s trying to stop himself but can’t – but the sight of him is enough to make me release a choked, breathless “ _fuuuuck… whaa-… fuck… don’t… stop… don’t stop… Goddontstop...”_  
  
I might as well have kept my mouth shut. It’s too late to stop now and we both know that. The gentle rocking against my hand is no longer gentle but a desperate, hard fucking into my fist, the crease between his fuckable round buttocks perfectly aligned with my swollen, leaking cock, and I’m cursing the fucking fabric between us but at the same time I don’t want to get rid of it because it feels like the only thing between me and utter insanity.

And not to think about how very much I want to see that beautiful arse hungrily swallowing my cock, I opt for the ultimate sin and choose to look at us in the mirror. Oh God… Merlin… I shouldn’t have done that. No, really… I shouldn’t have. I’ll take this image of him to my grave and to every maddening fist-fucking I’ll ever have from now on.

His eyes are still closed as if he’s allowing himself to live out a dream, and his body is riding the tight space between my hand and my heavy shaft to the savage sound of its own uncontrollable tune, like it’s the only thing he needs. With his naked, lean upper body dressed in nothing but a thin sheen of perspiration he’s such a perfect vision of debauchery and boyish innocence that I feel my balls draw impossibly tight, and I know just what’s coming but I can no longer help myself.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I groan and gasp all in one, and he finally opens his wild, silver-lit eyes looking equal parts dazzled and desperate. But I clearly haven’t done enough stupid for the day. His eyes are still glued to the image of us in the mirror, when I finally do what I’ve been wanting to do throughout this entire insane episode in our tiny, surreal corner of reality: I slowly lick the shell of his ear because I’ll fucking die if I don’t have a taste of him before this is over, and I whisper straight into his decadent moan:

“I want to fucking _own_ you just once in my life, gorgeous…”

“Ron…! _OhfuckRon_ …”

And that’s it. That desperate cry of surrender is all it takes. It’s all a savage, beautiful mess from that point on.

The sudden, brutal avalanche of release tears from the very pit of my balls, and it feels as if I got hit by the white-hot Unforgivable.

“ _ChristfuckDraco_!”

I’m suddenly out of breath and out of this fucking world. A thousand fires of bone-melting pleasure erupt all over me, burning me all the way down to my toes… and they’re ridiculously raw… _ohGod_ … and the best fucking thing ever. I can’t seem to stop coming, and the fireworks of bliss behind my closed eyelids are frying what little there was left of my brain. I hear someone… _myself_ … moan his name, over and over again, together with about a thousand obscene and gentle nothings as if I’ve lived my entire life for this perfect, glorious moment alone. I never knew how badly I needed to hear Draco Malfoy cry out my name… but somehow, he knew, and he gave it to me. I don’t ever want to open my eyes again.

I’m hunched over him because at some point I must have lurched forward, and he’s hot and breathing heavily underneath me as if he hasn’t quite recovered yet. I love the feeling of being wrapped around him, of him dwelling quietly under the weight of my body, not complaining, not trying to push me away, not trying to run. I know it can’t last, so I keep my eyes closed, I bury my face into his hair and I inhale the wild, exotic scent of him, trying to enjoy the moment and commit it to my memory. It’s the most peaceful I’ve ever been. Like something has fallen into place and I’m strangely whole in a way I never thought possible.

I don’t know how long we rest like this, no words and barely any signs of life, as if we’re both reluctant to come back to the complicated, impossible reality.

But eventually he moves underneath me, and I know it’s over. I straighten myself up and take one last look at us in the mirror. His face is still flushed pink, his eyes have that illusive silver sparkle, indistinguishable yet so very different from the grey of his eyes, and his bottom lip is swollen, like he bit it at some point. He’s so beautiful it hurts, and my chest is suddenly filled with the mad, desperate need to do something, say something, anything, to make sense of this and perhaps capture a tiny little hope of keeping it. I open my mouth and-

“Not a word,” he says quietly, looking straight into my eyes in the mirror with the head-on, desperate-sort of bravery I don’t have. “Not one, Weasley. I can’t do this.”

So, this was it. That was us. That was all we were meant to have. I grab my wand and quickly clean us both because that’s only decent and the one last thing he’ll let me do for him, and then I back off quietly to give him room to walk away. I try very hard to ignore the suffocating numbness I feel growing in my chest but I’m not doing a swell job of it, yeah? But then I catch a sight of him before he slips through the door of the bathroom, and, with a swift gesture of his hand, he seems to be wiping the moisture from his eyes. And a dumbfuck that I am, I choose to find hope and a bit of consolation in that as well.

I don’t dare leave the scene of our crime before I hear the door of the bedroom click, and the chilly, empty silence seems to echo through my tiny flat like never before. What the fuck was that?! What have we done?!


	7. Chapter 7

I can’t… I can’t do this. I told him the truth. I gave him the only truth I could, a tiny bit, but I’ve kept a big chunk to myself, and I feel like I’m choking on it.

I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop myself back there. I couldn’t. Something clicked inside me the second that big, hot palm of his hand took possession of my neck. His thumb pressed against my vein, and my heart just went into overdrive, like it finally recognised its owner. And I just… _melted_ into this fucking unrecognisable mess I’ve always tried so very hard not to be around him. And I can’t be that. I can’t do this… with him. I lose myself in him so very much that there’s barely any of me left, and it’s scary and wonderful and so bloody overwhelming that I can’t seem to catch my breath just thinking of it.

I’m lying on his bed, smelling of him, of his overpowering masculinity, of his warmth, and gentleness, and, dead-tired as I am, I can’t find any bloody sleep to save my life. Even the scent of him makes me come undone in ways I can’t begin to explain. Wiz and Lee are curled against me, their warm, silken fur wrapping me in the comforting feeling of safety, but even they can’t chase my restlessness away. He’s on the other side of that door. He’s probably struggling to find a way to fit that long, muscled form onto the tiny couch, tossing and turning and cursing… Even the thought of him makes my breath hitch.

I try not to listen to the faint sounds that come from the room next door but the flat is tiny, and the walls aren’t very thick. Oh, who am I kidding? I want to know… I want to know everything. I’d watch him sleep if I could. Why did I do that to myself? Why did I give into him when I knew better? I should never have come near him. But I have, and I dove in with everything I had, and now I can’t seem to find my way back to the person I was before. We’ve barely done anything – nothing that a pair of horny adolescent boys in the dorms seeking any kind of release wouldn’t have done – so why the hell was it so earth-shattering?

I’ve never come so hard in my life, and he barely touched me – but that was not even the earth-shattering part. Something inside me cracked, and the invisible force holding it all together, holding me together, has shattered into a thousand pieces. I’ve been trying not to cry since I’ve left him, and my eyes are burning from the tears I can barely keep back. Ronald Weasley broke me in the way not even the war did.

I never shed a goddamn tear ever since the end of war, not one, no matter what. Not when I was thrown out of the wizarding shelter with a dirty shard of glass still stuck in my back, not when that sleazy guy at Knockturn Alley tried to force himself upon me, not even when I was so hungry that I knocked the ice-cream out of the child’s hand in front of Fortescue’s just so I could finish what was left of it on the ground. Not once. I didn’t allow myself to think of what has become of me lest I shattered completely.

But I never anticipated this. I never anticipated him. I could have dealt with anything and anyone but him. But _he_ had to come and save me, didn’t he?! I used to think myself so high above him, and my mad, inexplicable longing for him always filled me with self-loathing and a mean desire to hurt him, just to show myself that in spite of my hidden, uncontrollable weakness I was not above _that_. And he always gave me just what I wanted: he fought me with all that red-hot passion that left marks all over my body, and I would wank myself raw thinking of his hands on me, and those fierce eyes watching me do it. I love his eyes on me, even when they’re angry, I do, but now…

Even if I wasn’t already a little bit smitten with those deep, bluest of blue pools, I’m properly obsessed now. I saw them turn from that innocent colour of the summer sky into a stormy, almost violet shade when his fingers locked around my neck, and that was the beginning of his arousal and the end of me. But up to this day all I had was my forbidden fantasies – and I could not imagine how little they lived up to reality. Dreaming of his hands on me – and actually _feeling_ that warm, strong, dominating touch take possession of me… _oh God_ , please don’t let me think of that! I miss his presence so much it makes my skin prickle.

Everything has gone quiet on the other side of the thin wall, and the thought that he’s probably finally gone to sleep, that he’s not up and… and… suffering and _needing_ the way I am is suddenly unbearable. I’m up before I realise what I’m doing and the angry, hopeless pounding in my head has nothing to do with reason. These are the actions of a dead-tired man who just wants to sleep, and the man on the other side of that door could help him. At least this is what I tell myself stubbornly before I put my hand on the doorknob. Now if only my stupid heart got the message.

~

I can’t fucking sleep, all right?! The bloody tiny couch is not the problem, I’ve enlarged it before, and though it’s not the most comfortable replacement for a bed I’ve ever rested on, it’s far from the worst. I was on the run for nearly a year, remember? So, no, it’s not that. It’s the thought of Malfoy on the other side of that door; what else?

There’s nothing but the deadly silence coming from inside my bedroom. He has occupied it without a second thought because Slytherins are like that, taking things without asking all the time: the bathrooms, the beds, the hearts… Merlin, I’m stupid. What heart? There was no heart in it… at least not for him. It was just a sorry attempt at fumbling about. He must have his needs… and I was probably just in the right place at the right time, so he took his chance. Anyone in my place would do. No need to be dragging anyone’s heart in it. At least not my own; the bloody thing breaks easily.

But what was that crying in the end all about? There was no mistaking it. He wiped his eyes, angrily so. Oh, perhaps he was just disappointed over himself for losing it so badly… and with me, of all people. Yeah, he could have picked someone better… I mean, practically anyone would have been better! Me and him… we’re not such a good fit. Except when we are…

Merlin’s hanging balls, will my dumb head stop rolling around this godawful idea of us, together?! There’s no _us, together_. There never will be. This thing in the bathroom… it was just a glitch…a malfunction… or something of the sort. He had said so himself. He can’t do this. He won’t. We’re _a nothing_. We won’t ever be _anything_. This week will be over, and he’ll be gone, and he won’t ever look at me again. He won’t even remember this… this _thing_ we had… the incident. And I’ll forget eventually as well. I will. Just give me time. About a hundred years will do.

Now, will this imbecile head of mine finally get the message and stop running images of us?! Because it keeps playing all those snippets and moments and memories, I didn’t even know it was possible to remember in so much colour. I keep seeing us, reflected in the mirror, and the way he couldn’t take those silver eyes off me… And then there’s this memory of the way he turned breathless and so very pliant when I put my hand around his neck… And the one of that beautiful, hard bulge moving under my hand, of that gorgeous, undoing sound he made when I touched him, of the way he said my name, like it was the only thing he cared about, the way no one’s ever said my name before… of the way he was and the way I was and the way we were – _stupid fucking head, please!!!_

How do I unscrew this useless thing off my neck?! Where’s Hermione with her _Obliviate_ when one needs her?! God, I’m a sucker. A hopeless sucker with a hopelessly deluded head and a hopelessly naïve heart. How do I fix this?!

“You need to come and fix it!”

Will the bloody serpent ever stop making me jump out of my skin?! This is my flat, he can’t just creep up on me like that! Yet, here he is, standing by my tiny couch, thin and ethereal, as if he was a just an illusion of the moonlight, looking a little lost and a little angry and about ready to cry. The fuck?

“You need to come and fix it,” he repeats, his voice a bit calmer but still shaky. “I can’t sleep. You… you did something to me, and now I can’t sleep… without you.”

“Draco… I…”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispers. “You always look at me like that, and then I can’t sleep. Just come and fix it.”

He doesn’t say _‘please’_ , but he might as well have. It’s in his voice and in his eyes, filled to the brim with tears he doesn’t spill. Like I was going to deny him. I get up, and I think I might be a little bit in a trance because I follow him without even saying a word. Did I just call him by his name? Oh, so this is a dream, right? It’s a bit fucked up, but I kind of love it. Don’t wake me up just yet. The two Kneazles escape from my bed with an angry hiss, and he closes the door behind them. It’s just us now. 

He doesn’t hesitate for a second. He slides into the bed as if he can’t wait to be embraced by the sheets again and immediately reaches for my hand. He only pulls me down, onto the bed with him, lightly but in a way that doesn’t allow any objection. There’s some sort of a quiet urgency in his gesture, as if he’s not sure I’m going to follow him all the way down to the bottom of this folly. But I can’t run. This is very likely the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, but I won’t run. Because, the truth is, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.

He rolls on his side, and I know what he wants me to do. I held him like this for two days, and my body remembers it before I do. I lie down next to him, carefully, not too close but as close as I dare. He’s a fickle, mean little thing, Merlin knows when he might decide to punch me for invading his personal space! But the punch doesn’t come. Instead, he reaches out behind me and pulls my arm over him, grunting happily when the rest of me follows. He buries his face in my chest, and I don’t think you could put a sheet of parchment between us.

The spoiled brat clearly has mistaken me for a human blanket… but I kind of, uhm, don’t mind it too much. He feels fragile, like something precious made its home in my arms, but he’s also wonderfully warm and relaxed inside the little shelter he’s made of my body. His soft hair is tickling my neck and his hot breath comes a little quick but this… it’s far from uncomfortable. It actually makes me feel, uhm, a million galleons worth? Another sign that I must be dreaming; I’ve never felt quite on top of the world like this. This dream will be a bitch to wake up from.

“There,” he whispers, his voice shaky as if he just completed a major task. “Now I can sleep.”

“All right,” I mumble, not too sure what you’re supposed to say in a dream. “Sleep tight… I guess?”

“Sleep tight,” he repeats after me, and it’s not until the two hot drops of liquid hit my chest, right under his face, do I realise what it cost him to come looking for me. And excuse me if that kind of melts my heart. All right, so the bloody thing is stupid, we’ve established that already. So, I decide to give him the full package, and I sink my fingers into his hair, massaging his scalp the way I used to do when he slept. He sighs in appreciation, so I keep doing it. No need for big words right now.

Gradually, his breathing grows even, and when I eventually chance a look at him, the thick fans of his eyelashes are firmly closed and there’s a little adorable pout on his mouth. Yeah, that was a stupid thing to do, Ron. Best not look at him while he sleeps, you’ll end up with a head full of bad, mad and very wrong ideas. And I’ve got plenty in stock already, thank you very much. Lying close to a soft, clingy little creature like Malfoy will give you those, apparently.

So my fingers keep combing through his hair, and I’m watching the moonlight paint shadows of my tiny little flat, and us, on the wall. And I’m wonderfully at peace. Looks like together with Malfoy, my troublesome brain finally decided to go quiet, and now I’m free to be as blind about this and as bold as I dare. No worries about how awkward and lonely I’m going to feel when I wake up, no questioning where a dream like this one is coming from or going to, no past and no future – none of that rubbish is allowed into the tight space between us. 

I push my face into that soft, silken hair instead, inhale that wonderful, exotic and a little bit undoing scent – and just let go. My eyes are already closing when I find myself pressing a tiny kiss into his hair. I suppose it’s because I’ve never felt happier in my life.


	8. Chapter 8

Have you ever woken up feeling like a carefree kitten? You know, still drowsy and not quite aware of the surroundings, yet happy and pleased as if a really good day lay ahead. Because I just did. I was always a light sleeper, and the purple fingers of dawn were enough to wake me from my slumber. I don’t open my eyes right away though. I’m so cosy, warm and content in my shelter that I have no need to meet the world just yet. But then my shelter _moves_ , grunts and sighs at the same time – and shelters don’t normally do that, do they?! My eyes certainly fly open now!

 _OhdearGod_ … Weasley! Merlin’s holey knickers, what have I done?! It’s all slowly coming back to me. The way I was all restless and raw from the… the thing… the incident in the bathroom last night… and _tired_! _God_ , was I tired! I couldn’t fall asleep without him, could I? So, I went to fetch him like… like he was a giant teddy bear! Oh, that was just brilliant, Draco! That’s going to solve all your problems. Not.

But how is he still here?! I would have thought he would have run as soon as I managed to fall asleep… but I guess not. I suppose he did spend an awful lot of time caring for me in the past couple of days, so he must be tired. That’s it. He’s probably dead tired. It’s not like he _likes_ sleeping next to me. Er, no. Would he? I decide to chance a look at the face above me – and really, why did he feel the need to grow taller than I?! It’s _very_ annoying, you know… and perhaps a little bit, uhm… striking. And so is… so is his face. Ron Weasley’s sleeping face is… well, for the lack of a better word, adorable.

He snores lightly – because of course he does, the Weasley Neanderthal! – and his bright red hair is sticking up in every direction and covering half of his freckled face. He’s already got a bit of morning stubble on his cheek, and that takes my mind places… Merlin no, where it _definitely_ shouldn’t! I try to look away from him but my eyes are like a pair of flies caught in honey, and I just… I’m not able to tear them away from him. I’ve never had a chance to properly see him up close – and let’s face it, I most likely never will again – so I indulge myself… that is, my curiosity, erm, yes, and I… well, I just shamelessly stare for a while.

In the half-light of the silver morning Ronald Weasley is… well… uhm. All that. You know. Handsome. As in, formidable… all right: he’s beautiful. There, I’ve said it. He was always tall but I can’t remember him being quite so… muscled. He’s filled out really nicely. And there’s just something about him… I can’t really put it into words. It’s not only the golden freckles calling my fingers to touch them, or a little frown between his strong eyebrows I just want to even out with my finger, it’s also… he’s got that … shockingly soft mouth, calling me… er, oh, you know… we’ve never even kissed and we... Oh God. I’ve turned into a Troglodyte. I can’t think. I can’t _think_ right while lying next to Ron Weasley. He’s turned me stupid. Suits me right. 

He groans in his sleep as if he would be able to hear my thoughts, and I mentally chuckle, thinking what a shock he’d get waking up next to me. I bet he’d be as surprised as I was! Yeah, that would be fun… Only, it’ll never happen. I can’t let it. Not only would it complicate things infinitely if I let him wake up next to me; I also… uhm, I’ve got a bit of a _situation_ in my nether regions.

Apparently, watching Ron Weasley sleep is a universal cry to arms to my overcompensating libido, and I’m… uhm, frankly, I’m as stiff as a handle of a pitchfork right now. As in, hard as a fucking rock. Seriously, if I stay any longer a bit of that adorable grunting might have me spilling. And I can’t… I can’t have that. Not after last night. So, I swallow a little desperate curse, and I force myself up. Bathroom. _Now_.

~

I wake up from the most bizarre dream – which is perhaps, uhm, a little bit wonderful as well – and my first thought is to check if there’s any chance – a minuscule one would do – that it’s real. Yeah, like that’s going to happen. Still, I open my eyes with more hope than it’s good for me, and… nothing. I’m alone in my bed. _Unlike_ the way I was in my dream. Yeah, I knew it was going to be like that; I’m _not_ disappointed… I’m not. I knew it wasn’t… I mean, how could it be real, duh?! Though it certainly feels like some of his scent lingers about… See what a little dumb dream can do to you? I’m imagining things now. Wistfully. Stupid dream.

But then a rattle of dishes followed by a loud bang literally catapults me to the ceiling. My wand is in my hand before I even know I’ve reached out for it – it’s about time that all those long hours at the Auror training pay off – and I’m already carefully tiptoeing towards the kitchen where we seem to have an intruder. How they made it past the wards is anyone’s guess, but there’s clearly some presence in my home, and they could have come for – uhm, for fuck-knows what? I can’t think of anything of value-… _Malfoy_!!

The thought instantly sends a rush of livid heat to my head! Oh, how dare they?! He could certainly be considered a valuable witness. Or, for someone nefarious, a wonderful tool to blackmail Narcissa Black into failing to cooperate. But, he’s clearly putting up _some_ fight in spite of his vulnerable state – no wand, yeah? – because there’s copious cursing coming out of the kitchen. While I can still hear his voice, it can’t be too late. _Hang on in there, babe, I’m coming to get you!_

And I’m going to get whomever is after him! I’m fucking pissed off right now, all right?! I might not have quite Harry’s reputation but I held my own in the war, yeah? Whomever is in there, they’re seriously fucked, they’re…

_“What. The. Actual. Fuck?!”_

My kitchen is all but in ruins. There’s flour and several eggs literally _everywhere_ – yeah, I looked at the ceiling, there as well – and Harry’s house-warming gift, the brilliant Muggle microwave, has black fumes coming out if it. It clearly exploded. Oh, and there’s no intruder. Just Malfoy. Covered in what looks like an eggy goo.

“Don’t you _‘what the fuck’_ me, Weasley!!” he roars, clearly shaken to the bone. “I certainly didn’t fill this sorry excuse of a kitchen with dangerous Muggle contraptions – that was all you! I could have gotten killed!”

I’m slowly beginning to get an idea of what just happened here.

“Er, you didn’t, by chance, try to cook something, eh? In microwa- in this box?”

“ _Of course_ I tried to cook, you daft twit! I was _starving_! You’re a terrible host, by the way! Snoring the day away while your guests _starve_!”

“What exactly did you try to do here?” I ask carefully because a life-threatened Malfoy is a precarious little thing that could go off at any minute.

“Well, _cook_ , obviously! I figured it would be like Potions, only I don’t have a wand, do I? So, I tried it your way. You don’t keep your food-cupboard very well stocked, by the way! There was hardly anything other than some cheese, ham and those damn eggs in there! So, I decided to try that omelette you made yesterday because that one was rather del-, well, it was acceptable. How hard could it be, if _you_ could do it, right? Only there’s no fire in this bloody kitchen to start, and this one –” he points to the brand-new induction cooker Hermione had gifted me once she discovered my love for the Muggle way of making food, “– this _garbage_ didn’t want to turn on for me. So, this box here was the only one with the buttons that didn’t look too hard to operate.”

Oh boy, I can see where this is going…

“Only, it exploded on me, didn’t it?!” he says lividly. “I took the biggest, heaviest pan with the thickest, safest bottom, and I put it in – and _still_ it blew up on me!! What kind of lethal experiments are you carrying on in here with this Muggle machinery, anyway?!”

Look, I can’t help it, all right? I know he’s clearly upset, and I really shouldn’t rile him up further but my shoulders are shaking before he’s halfway done, and by the time he bellows his last words, I’m already bent in two, roaring with laughter. Merlin’s hanging balls… Malfoy… _tried to cook_! In my _Muggle-style_ kitchen! Because it _can’t_ be that different from Potions! And because if _I_ could do it – yup, my Malfoy, I mean the Malfoy… _my_ Malfoy is definitely back. Can’t help but love the man. The colourful insult – insults, plural – gave him away. And he’s unharmed. Half of my hysterical laugher is just plain relief.

“I’m so very glad to be able serve as entertainment,” he comments dryly but somehow, he doesn’t look quite as irritable as moments ago. No, seriously – I could be imagining, but under all that flour and egg goo, there _might_ be a tiny smile hiding he can’t quite conceal. Nah… Malfoy, smiling at his gooey-looking self? Never!

“Oh boy… thanks for that,” I finally manage to curb my neurotic laugher somehow, though a rebel giggle still escapes me every once in a while. “I needed it after the scare you gave me.”

“The scare? What scare?” He looks at me with a puzzled look in his eyes as if he genuinely has no idea what I’m on about. Right, uhm… and now what?! Why on earth did I think it was a good idea to tell him that I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the commotion in the kitchen?!

“Well, I was still half asleep, looking for… never mind, it was just a stupid dream, but then there was all this shebang in the kitchen, and I thought someone was… well, out to get you,”  
I mumble, and I can feel my cheeks flush seven colours of Weasley. I’m suddenly very interested in all the damage done to my kitchen. Malfoy just got very hard to look at.

“And that gave you a scare?” he says quietly. “Thinking someone was here to harm me?”

“Well, uhm, yeah…” I mumble and if my cheeks get any hotter, Malfoy could borrow them to make his omelette on top of them. “You see, I’ve had this dream that you were there… and then suddenly you weren’t and… uhm, yeah.”

Oh great. _Great, Ron._ That even sounded _great_. I think I’ve just found a fail-proof way to tell a bloke I care about him. Or not. _Not._ Don’t try this at home, boys.

“Yeah,” he breathes quietly, and there’s something in his voice that makes me chance a swift glance in his direction. He’s staring at me again, that silver look I’ve seen before, and I… uhm, my throat just got very thick. Or something.

“So, uhm, I reckon you want a shower now, yeah?” I suggest quickly, just to say something. “I’ll clean up in here while you’re at it. And then I’ll buy you some breakfast. Uhm, I guess I owe you since my microwave tried to kill you.”

Merlin, why do I feel the sudden need to babble out every word in the English language?! And I can’t seem to stop! Help, please!

“There’s this really nice place just down the street that serves killer brioche, fresh out of the oven. They come with butter, and all variations of jam you can think of, and they’re to die for. So, you think…?”

“Stop, Weasley, just… stop. Before you hurt yourself,” he suddenly smiles, and… _ohmyfuckingGod_. Merlin.

Did it just get really bright in my little hole-in-the-wall of a flat?! Because Malfoy’s smile… it’s bright. It really seems to light up the place and his face… it’s just different. Softer. Radiant. Fucking beautiful. Uhm, not beautiful, er, no. I mean, not like the flowers and babies and such. Just… uhm, kind of nice. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Malfoy smile in my life. Snort in contempt probably came the closest. But smile… I’d definitely remember that.

“Of course I’ll go out with you,” he says simply.

What?! But… uhm… I never… or did I?!

“I’ll take a killer brioche – to die for – over a micro-thingy to die _from_ any time of the day,” he says smugly, more like my old Malfoy, but not quite, because there’s this warm glow in his eyes and he’s just… different.

“Uhm, all right,” I say like in a trance because I honestly cannot discern how I managed to ask Malfoy out without, uhm, you know, actually asking. My stupid heart doesn’t seem to mind, though. It’s happily jumping in my chest, still kind of _dazzled_ by that savage smile.

“Just give me ten minutes,” he throws across his shoulder, suddenly all action and headed for the bathroom. “And for God’s sakes get me something to wear, I implore you,” he shouts, with the bathroom door already closed. “I dare say that Potter’s taste in clothes is ghastly, and if I have to wear another orange shrunken t-shirt, I’d rather starve.”

What the fuck did I get myself into?! I say _“do it yourself”_ to my ravaged kitchen in bad need of reparation and decide to storm my closet instead to find something suitable for him to wear. Which I don’t. Not even after the ten-minutes-going-on-half-an-hour it takes Malfoy to get ready. We used to look sort of the same, tall and lean, but, uhm, I’ve filled out some and he hasn’t. He’s just not built like me anymore. And Harry doesn’t leave any of his nice clothes lying around. The only thing remotely suitable is…

“Any luck finding something?”

All right, peeps. A word of advice. Do not turn around suddenly and look at a freshly bathed Malfoy, wrapped in towel-only from the waist down, with tiny crystal droplets of water making those miles of impeccable skin look like it’s made the finest sparkly marble. Just… don’t.

I gulp. And I gulp again. I bet I look as if one of his Kneazles finally got my tongue. And I might have just sprained my dumbfuck of a cock. I might as well hang a tiny Slytherin flag on the stupid hard rod as a sign of surrender. Something flickers at the bottom of his eyes, as if someone turned on that dangerous, silver glow that makes my heart flutter.

“Well?” he tilts his head elegantly.

“Just my old Auror-trainee uniform,” I finally find my tongue, but my voice is kind of parched, and it doesn’t seem to work that well. “I was quite gangly back then. Living on the run would do that to you… as you well know. Made my mum cry how scrawny I was. It fit back in the day but it no longer does. With a bit of magic… perhaps…”

“Let me see,” he says imperiously, and I move out of his way, only I’m not quite quick enough and when his naked arm casually brushes against mine, I end up with my heart beating like a battle drum. I’m going to need to get a bigger flat at some point, seriously…

“Hm,” he says upon inspecting the garment. It really is quite elegant. Not quite the beauty the black, formal Auror uniforms are, but made of grey, smooth and warm fabric, simple tailored design, and the sleeves come decorated with old runes. I remember how proud I was when I put it on for the first time. I made my mother cry again.

“It will do,” he decides, and I’m ridiculously relieved. Oh, and more than just a little curious how it will look on him.

“Have you got a shirt that goes with it? Oh yes, there it is. I won’t be a minute.”

He’s gone in a blink, the bathroom door shutting close behind him again, and I’m just standing there, a bit dizzy and dumbfounded, wondering at what point in life did I take a turn that brought me to half-naked Malfoy occupying _my_ bathroom and putting on _my_ old uniform. Maybe I still haven’t woken up? Was there something in those black fumes coming from the microwave? I try to distract myself by looking for some half-decent clothes for myself, but my mind keeps going back to the man in the bathroom, and I can’t for the love of God, care or remember what I put on.

“Weasley,” – _JesusbloodyChrist_ , will he stop sneaking up on me?! I was just thinking of him, I’m not quite ready to see him! But he’s standing right here, his too-long hair caught in a tiny, surprisingly elegant ponytail, and the grey trousers a perfect fit, if a little long – nothing a carefully applied shrinking charm won’t fit. But it’s not his hair or his trousers that got my attention. The plain white shirt he’s wearing is still unbuttoned – and it currently holds the place of the most alluring garment on the entire planet. _Oh, holy fuck._ It puts his marble skin on a shy display, inviting my entranced eyes like moths to the fire – and I might have just forgotten how to think. Or to close my mouth, for that matter.

“I need a bit of help with the buttons,” he says quietly, his voice subdued and smooth as honey, as if he knows he’s asking something intimate of me. “You’re more used to it than I am. Will you…?”

The stupid knot in my throat is back, and I just nod. The elegant, pristine white shirt comes with a fitting charm to make it all but invisible under the uniform and it hugs his form like water. I… I can’t remember my clumsy, nervous fingers ever shaking so badly as they do when I begin to tackle the tiny buttons, fitting them through the narrow holes.

He’s standing perfectly still, a picture of a perfectly-bred young gentlemen, but I feel his warm breath on my skin, and I _can’t-fucking… think_. My fingers lose their grip several times, and I hear myself mutter a breathless: “Sorry”.

“It’s all right… you can’t get it wrong,” he says in a voice so low, it’s almost a purr. “Just go on. You’re already so much better at it than I am.”

So, I do it. I go on – only I make it to his chest, with his heartbeat pounding like mad under my fingers… and I stop before doing the very last button under the neck. I can’t. I can’t go on. That vulnerable, gorgeous neck is too close, reminding me of our crime last night, and I can’t… I just can’t go near it. God knows what I might do if I come anywhere near.

So, I play stupid, and I lie.

“Done,” I tell him, not looking him straight in the eyes, afraid of what I might find.

“Are you?” he asks quietly, and I have no good answer to that. So, I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.

“Well… I happen to like you a little wild,” I tell him, and I finally look him in the eye, pleading him quietly not to call my bluff. It’s him who _“can’t do this”_ – and this is the only way I can play along.

He doesn’t say a word for a second, but then he just exhales shakily and closes his eyes. I never see it coming.

His lips press into the corner of my mouth, and it’s not just a quick peck, but a slow, deliberate almost-kiss, as if he came looking for a taste of something he can’t have.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and his lips are the softest thing ever, so I close my eyes as well and just inhale his clean, heavenly scent. It feels as if I’ll die if I never get a proper taste of him. I want to taste his lips so much my chest hurts. I desperately want this to be a real kiss… but I know this is as close as I’ll get. This was his call, this is what he wants.

“Please, let’s just go,” he whispers frantically, his lips still near mine, and every warm breath feels like a rogue, rebellious kiss meant for me. I’m desperately trying to catch it.

“Yeah,” I breathe, not quite aware of what I’m agreeing to because this is too good and I’m trying very hard to keep it.

“Merlin, don’t do this,” he whispers, and finally, god-fucking-finally, his lips find mine, and he presses a proper, long, luxurious kiss onto my lips and… God. _Oh God._ This is just… it’s… it’s a good thing that my eyes are already closed because I might have fallen through the bottomless wormhole that suddenly appeared under my feet. I’m not sure I’m still standing up, because it feels as if I’m swimming, and everything is kind of golden and dizzy.

Those lips of his… they’re made of pure, velvet poison. I can’t quit tasting him, I can’t stop picking the sweet taste of them off with my tongue, and, once his silken tongue slips into my mouth, I can’t hold back a moan. This is so intense, we might as well be fucking. His breathing is quick and shallow again, and I know he feels it in our magic as fiercely as I do. We’re approaching the point of no return fast, and we’re losing ourselves in each other more and more with every desperate, starved kiss.

“Stop me,” he whispers. “Please stop me. I can’t stop myself. Please… we can’t…”

It takes everything I’ve got to pull away. _Everything. I. Have. Got._ But I do. I’m not going to do this. I’m not going to do something he’s going to regret. I can’t bear him regretting something as magical, fragile and beautiful as this. I’d rather not take it.

“Fuck you,” he whispers hoarsely, when I pull back, and I just shake my head numbly, wishing I could shake off my bloody hunger for him so easily.

“Fuck you, Ron Weasley,” he says fiercely when I move a step back for good measure. But then he opens his lovely, silver eyes, full of tears again, and he adds a breathless: “Thank you.”

“I… I need a moment,” I tell him, and run fingers through my hair because it feels as if my fucking head is about to explode, and I don’t know how I’ll survive this. I don’t even wait for his answer. I head straight for the bathroom and lock the door behind me, leaning onto it heavily. And then I do what I have to do. I’ve never wanked and bawled before at the same time. But Malfoy will do that to you. This is what I get for falling for him. Hitting the bottom. Hard.


	9. Chapter 9

I _hate_ him. God, I hate him. Look what he’s done to me… He’s made me need him… Merlin… _so much_. I don’t even have words… I want to touch him all the time, and when I do, I just… fall apart. I want to be with him so badly my whole damn body is trembling and everything aches. I’d give a kingdom to stop wanting him right now… but I can’t, and if I did, I would lose more than a kingdom. I would lose myself. Because wanting Ron Weasley… that’s me. That’s all me. Not my upbringing, not my name, nothing I was ever raised to be prepared me for this – this is all me. _I did this._ I fell for him, and this is who I am. I want Ron Weasley like I’ve never wanted anything in my life.

I’m listening to the barely audible sounds coming from the bathroom… and it’s sounds every bit like sobbing. _JesusbloodyChrist_ , what the fuck have I done? Those helpless stifled sounds… Merlin, just kill me now. This is so heart-crushing that I wish I could just curl into a ball and die.

Why did I tell him to stop? Oh, I know very well why. Because… _heartbreak_. I thought… I thought I couldn’t take it. I’ve got so little I can hang on to and if I lose this as well… And I will, I already know that. This… thing we have… how could it last? Sure, it feels easy right now, right here, in this magical little place that has none of the luxury I was used to in my previous life but _everything_ I need – and ten times its warmth. But though I barely dare think beyond it, I have to. I don’t have the luxury of delusion that this will somehow last.

This lovely dream here is just a cocoon of happiness, of what could have been, and its days are numbered. The real world is on the other side of it, and it’s scary, and there’s no room for us in it. Heartbreak is inevitable. It’s already upon us. And as a true-to-my-nature Slytherin I tried to take some control over the uncontrollable, only I’ve only caused more damage and misery, haven’t I? 

I’ve clearly hurt him. And as I sit here in a heap of despair, wiping off my own tears angrily, I realise that this is the last thing I want to do. I can’t _bear_ to see him hurt. I can bear my heartbreak, I’ll have to, when the time comes – but I can’t bear his. Is it all so very lost? Is there really no world in which Ron Weasley and I could be together? And why the fuck am I so scared to find out? Have I got it in me to give it a go?

Like he’d give me a chance again… I’ve rejected him twice, the idiot that I am, and his self-esteem was always so wobbly… He’s got no reason to trust me again. Did I really fuck this up beyond repair? 

I’m still sitting on the floor, crumbled into myself, when he comes out of the bathroom. His eyes are red, but there’s a sad calm to his face, as if the lively Ron Weasley that I know somehow sunk into the grey, unforgiving sea of despair, and I can no longer reach him under the dull surface. I _hate_ seeing him like this. I hate seeing the light in his eyes gone. And I did this. I made him this way. Merlin, I need to find a way to fix it. But I need to take it slow. He no longer trusts me. And if we’re going to do this, I will need him to trust me. Here goes nothing…

I extend my arm towards him in a silent gesture that I want him to pick me up from the floor. He only hesitates for a moment, and then takes it quietly and pulls me up to my feet. The relief I feel is ridiculous. His hand is warm, and I make sure he can’t let go right away. Something flickers at the bottom of his eyes when I hold on for a moment too long. It could be anger, it could be something else entirely – something like hope – but right now, I don’t care. I’ll take anything as long as he still has something to give me. I can’t say I deserve a fucking thing.

“Can you fix this?” I ask him, pointing to my trousers. “They’re a tad too long, you don’t want me tripping and _‘shattering my brittle bones’_ as you’ve so eloquently put it.”

“All right,” he mumbles – and was that a hint of a smile? Merlin’s beard, it better be!

“But I’m warning you, my shrinking charms are shit. If you end up with breeches instead…”

He pulls his wand out of the holster, and I’ve got no time to lose.

“Then let’s do this together,” I say quickly, and I slip my hand over his, so we’re holding his wand together. I can’t let his shocked and hurt look get to me… I can’t.

“I’ll say the incantation, and you just flick the wand sideways, like this,” I gently move his wrist in a sweeping motion, and I casually lean into him. “Make your wrist softer, that’s it… Make sure to aim properly, I don’t want to end up with a shorter leg… _Reducio!_ ”

I look at the result, and up to him, into those big blue eyes, no longer dull, and I dare shoot him the tiniest of smiles.

“Perfect,” I tell him quietly. “Now, let’s do the other one.”

I love leaning into him. He’s taller, always so warm, and smells of soap and his wonderful hot skin, and nothing else. I could do this all day. But these stolen moments are all I’ve got. For now.

“Ready?” I ask him. He just nods in reply, and takes his eyes off me a moment too late. _I’m sorry for confusing you so, babe, I swear, I’m not just toying with you… Please bear with me… please._

_“Reducio!”_

I end up with perfectly shortened trousers, but I refuse to take my hand off his. It feels as if it’s just found its rightful place and I’d rather not move it at all.

“Accio my jacket while you’re at it… please,” I tell him a little breathless because I’m near him, entirely too close, and all my senses seems to be on fire once again. I don’t want to blunder and kiss him again. “Let’s just go.”

He doesn’t even grunt in reply. He silently just does what I tell him to, and it’s the best feeling ever when I get to slip under his arm and get ready to be Side-Along Apparated. As soon as his arm closes around me, I deliberately, slowly lean my head onto his shoulder. His grip around me tightens, as if he was caught by surprise by my action, but I close my eyes and I refuse to own what I’m doing. _Please don’t push me away, love, this is taking all the bloody courage I’ve got…_

He just sighs a little, and a moment later I feel the familiar pull of Apparition. We Apparate onto a quiet street, and I slip my arm around his waist.

“Just give me a moment,” I tell him, and I press my face deeper into his shoulder. “It’s all kind of dizzy right now.”

He grunts, but doesn’t push me away, and I drag the moment out for as long as I can. I breathe him in, once, twice, enough to last me through the day, and I barely hold back a mewl. If only I could stay like this…

“Are you all right?” he asks softly, and there’s genuine concern in his voice. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be Apparating in your current state.”

Merlin, I so don’t deserve him.

“I’m fine,” I tell him quickly because I really can’t stand to see him anxious, but then I have a brilliant idea. “Just a little dizzy. Perhaps… like this.”

I slip my hand into his before he can protest, and I blink at him innocently: “Ready.” And when those fingers don’t close around mine as fast as I want them to, I add: “And starving.”

Yes! That does the trick.

“Hmpf,” he says as if he’s not entirely convinced, but his big, warm hand is now closed around mine tightly, and I’m as happy with my little victory as one can be. 

“It’s not far,” he tells me. “Look, just over there, across the street by that classy old villa. Would you rather sit outside in the sun, or do you want us to get a table inside? It is getting a little chilly, looks like the weather is about to turn…”

“Inside,” I have no trouble deciding. I’ve just realised that this place is close to the entrance to the Ministry – there must be loads of Ministry employees coming here, and I could do with a bit of privacy. “It is a bit chilly indeed.”

“Inside it is,” he decides. “We don’t want you to catch something before… you know.”

He sounds a little sad when he says that, and I really can’t think about this right now, about what awaits at the end of this week… about leaving him.

“Just feed me,” I say quickly, not to blurt out something stupid. “I’m positively famished.”

And I am, God, ever so! As we enter the place the most heavenly smell of fresh bread hits me, and it actually makes me a little dizzy. I used to avoid places like this when I lived on the streets, the very smell made my empty stomach cramp in pain back then, and being hungry was so much harder to handle.

“Looks like we’re on time,” he comments with a pleased smile spreading across his freckled face, setting his blue eyes afire. “It smells of a fresh batch. Now, go and sit in that booth at the end, it looks empty, and no one will bother us there. I’ll just go and place our orders, it will be faster. Any special wishes?”

“Nah,” I tell him. “Dazzle me.”

~

The fuck?! _Dazzle him?!_ Again that silly word that I just can’t… And once more that naughty smile he can’t hide. I think he knows very well what he’s doing to me. Why am I still playing this cruel, heart-breaking game with him? Do I need excitement in my life so badly? I wish my foolish heart stopped fluttering every time he does something cheeky and affectionate. He made it clear that he doesn’t want this, he made me stop when he couldn’t – why doesn’t he just let it go?

Bloody Malfoy. He’s bound to run me around the bend. But it will all be over in a week – he’ll be gone and I’ll be free. At peace. And so fucking lonely. Yeah, I reckon he’s just being smart, not wanting us to start something we can’t ever finish. But still… I wish he’d quit toying with me. I wish I didn’t have such a gullible heart, jumping at every sign of affection. I’m a stupid man with a stupid heart. I should really have known better by now.

But a good quarter of an hour later when I watch him dive into the food like someone who’s been without it for too long, with just an occasional _“Merlin, this is too good”_ and _“I think I might want to marry this croissant”_ – I can’t help to think it’s all in vain. He just makes my heart melt. He’s fun, but not corny, he’s got a way of showing his appreciation without too many words that would make it awkward – and he can’t seem to stop touching me.

“Try this,” he tells me, and offers me a piece of brioche filled with strawberry jam. His fingers brush against my lips, and there’s nothing but a flash of silver in his eyes to acknowledge that he knows he’s playing with fire. “Isn’t this just _the best_ thing you’ve ever had?”

“I’ve been coming here since I started working for the Ministry,” I tell him with a smile because his enthusiasm is contagious. “I know how good their food is. Though I can’t say I’ve ever had such excited company.”

“If anyone, I should think you’d understand passion for good food,” he mumbles, his cheeks flushing adorably. “You always used to stuff yourself silly, not minding the manners… and while we’re on the subject – you’ve got a bit of jam here in the corner of your mouth,” he points at my mouth with a wicked smile.

“Hold still,” he says without a blink, and before I have a chance to respond, his finger brushes against my lip, and the damn thing feels as if it caught on fire. “There, gone,” he declares softly, and licks his finger like a greedy kitten, making my balls grow tight with need. His eyes are on me, the silver glow is back and I… I need to stop this. This… this is entirely too intimate. We need to be somewhere… somewhere more public. He’ll have to stop this when there’s an audience.

“Finish your meal,” I tell him and try not to show him how very much he got to me. “We still have somewhere to be.” 

“You are such a tyrant,” he sighs dramatically, dabs his mouth with a napkin like a proper snob would, and gets up primly. “All right, your majesty, where to?”

“Madam Malkin’s,” I tell him, happy that I was able to think of something plausible. “I just realised you have no clothes that fit properly, and it’s not _technically_ legal to wear this uniform unless you’re a Ministry employee, you know. You’re going to need some proper clothes for… you know, for the trial,” I force the words through my throat.

But all the colour suddenly disappears from his face.

“But I’m afraid I haven’t got sufficient funds for that,” he says quietly and kind of stiffly. “And I doubt that the Malfoy credit is still a thing after the war. Besides, I don’t want to…”

He goes quiet before finishing the sentence, and suddenly he’s looking anywhere but me.

“You don’t want to – what? Oh, owe me?” I guess blindly. There’s so much unspoken anxiety in his pale face that it makes my heart sink. He must think me a proper asshole.

“Think of it as a loan. One you will easily repay once you get your assets back.”

His eyes turn as big and round as the moon when he looks at me, and for once he seems at a loss for words.

“Do you… do you really suppose that could happen?” he whispers, and the childlike hope in his trembling voice is heartbreaking. “Is there an actual chance, like, for real? Please, don’t lie to me; I should really like to know. I _need_ to know.”

Well, I’m not the judge or the jury of the Wizengamot, but considering what Narcissa Malfoy did for Harry back then… Doesn’t he know? Didn’t anyone tell him?

“Draco, your mother lied for Harry in Voldemort’s presence _while he was still alive_ ,” I tell him as gently as I can because he’s gone so ashen, I’m afraid he just might collapse. “That was an incredibly brave thing to do, and she gave Harry a chance no one else could. Voldemort had hit Harry with a killing curse, and she volunteered to check if he was still alive – he didn’t dare to do it himself. She had found Harry breathing, pretended to listen to his heartbeat and asked him if you were alive; this was the only thing she cared about. Once she got her answer, she stood up and lied straight to the Dark Lord’s face. She proclaimed Harry dead, giving him a chance to be transported to the castle. She made our victory in the battle of Hogwarts possible. Her love for you, and her bravery, did. And Harry has every intention of testifying on the matter, as it happened. Hermione’s been training him on how to say it right for weeks.”

The effect of my words is… unexpected. He doesn’t collapse. He closes his eyes and goes motionless for a long moment as if all life has left him... and then he launches himself at me with a force that nearly knocks me over. His long, thin arms wrap around my neck, and I hear a few forks clatter to the ground when his lips find mine. Draco Malfoy is kissing me in broad daylight, on the mouth, good and proper – and no one is more shocked about it than I am. Seriously, my heart nearly stops.

But then the bloody thing starts pounding like a sledgehammer, and the first thing out of my panicked mouth is: 

“I can’t do this. We can’t. You said...”

His fingers sink into my hair, and his lips taste of strawberry jam and pure, unfiltered desire.

“Just this once,” he whispers. “Please…”

Merlin… he’s just a bloody Siren, isn’t he? My rational thoughts are rapidly drowning in the rush of blood to my head, and in one last attempt at saving us from this folly, I blurt out a desperate: 

“I won’t be able to stop.” 

“So what?!” he whispers heatedly, and when his teeth sink in my lip angrily, I barely hold back a groan. Bloody Slytherin beast… I could probably staple him to the wall with my cock right now. 

“Why did you have to stop in the first place?! I didn’t want you to… But you just have to be this bloody Gryffindor all the time, noble and considerate… But don’t you dare stop now! So, what if we can’t last? At least we’ll have something… a memory to keep us warm at night… I’ve wanted you since I was sixteen…”

All right, that’s just… _ohmyGod_ …

“Just this once?” I ask, and my voice is so heavy with feelings I barely recognise it.

“Yeah… just this once,” he whispers and his lean body presses into me in a silent promise that this time there’s no stopping us.

One of my hands slips onto his back, bringing him closer, impossibly close, while my other hand sinks deep into the silken blond hair. I close my eyes and bind us to the road to nowhere with a deep, boiling kiss I put all of myself in. 

“Merlin… Ron,” he gasps when I finally let him breathe. “Sometimes I forget just how fucking incredible you are. But you never fail to remind me.”

You know what, I don’t even care anymore… Perhaps this is only his twisted way of saying thank you, or I’m just a toy for a spoiled rich boy for one evening. I don’t care. I want to keep this so badly my heart is about to beat through my chest. This time, I bite his lip just to show him I mean business, and he hisses and mewls at the same time, making me want to push him against the nearest wall and fuck him senseless.

“Gentlemen, _please_! This is a respectable establishment!” a female voice shrieks behind us, sounding flabbergasted, and it takes me a while to remember that we’re, in fact, still very much in a very public place. Merlin’s balls… here goes what little there was to my wobbly reputation! But the soft white kitten in my hands just laughs quietly into my mouth, as if couldn’t care less, as if he couldn’t contain his joy.

“Can Madam Malkin wait, you think? I might have too many clothes at the moment, rather that too few…” 

“Absolutely,” I gasp, because the cheeky bastard picked that moment to slip his tongue in my mouth – and how does he expect me to Disapparate us and not splinch us both into a stack of toothpicks is anyone’s guess!

“Hurry up, will you?” the spoiled bastard murmurs, while my fingers are frantically looking for my wand. “The buttons in my nether regions may not be up to their task for much longer. You, Mr. Weasley, are an astonishingly gifted kisser.”

Dear God, splinching is inevitable, I just hope I don’t get rid of any of the important bits!


	10. Chapter 10

Merlin, he’s just… absolutely incredible, you know?! How could I not give in? There’s so much to him… he doesn’t even know. Not only does he look like a god of old – tall and broad-shouldered, with that fiery hair and fierce eyes – he also takes my breath away with the way he kisses: like there’s no tomorrow, and no place like now. He won’t even let me breathe… actually, I don’t want to breathe. When Ron Weasley kisses you, you find breathing to be largely overrated.

And not only does he kiss like a proper hot-headed Gryffindor – he’s also wonderfully caring and protective of me. Merlin knows that, as vulnerable as I am right now, that means the world to me. He’s much wittier than I’ve given him credit for, but I love the most how open and honest he comes across: there’s no cockiness, no subtle hints of his own importance, no pretence – just Ron Weasley, as he is. And you know what else I find charming? For all the times he acts like an elephant in a china shop – Ronald Weasley can be incredibly sensitive when the time comes. He gave me hope when I needed it the most, and I can’t ever repay him for that. And now he’s willing to take his chance with me, come what may, even when I have nothing worth keeping to give him. He’s just… all that. Merlin’s shiny balls, yes.

So, I’ve thrown all my caution to the wind, so what?! It’s not the first time… and he’s totally worth it. I know I’m not easy to handle; I was brought up this way. But he’s more than up to the job… oh, yeah. I only have to look into the stormy blue eyes filled with fire and lust and that unexpected, striking power that comes with it, and something in me just dissolves into a puddle of pure need.

I lied just a little bit when I said that I’d wanted him since I was sixteen. It was probably sooner… much sooner, I just refused to recognise it as such. I’ve been fighting this need to give in to Ron Weasley for over half a decade, and now I no longer can.

“Ready?” he whispers just before his hand grips his wand, and I love it how protectively he wraps his arm around me before we Disapparate. It’s wonderful… and just a little bit scary. I’ve never done something like this before. I’m not talking about sex – I’ve had my own small if painful measure of experience – but I never… I never had all my dreams about to come true. 

~

We land hard. Of course we do. Because I’m a big, incompetent troll like that. If there’s something to screw up, I’m your man. No wonder the twins used to ask me so often to test their products. But you know what – I’m one _lucky_ troll. We land on the bed. Crash on it, actually. And with me on top of him, that really isn’t all that bad. He gasps – _“Weasley, you absolute oaf!”_ – and chuckles at the same time, so I kiss him thoroughly to apologise. I’m not giving up until I hear that needy little mewl he masters so well. I push my fingers into hair for good measure because I’ve learned how much he loves being held in place while we kiss – and perhaps a little bit because I love the silken sensation of his warm hair, covering my fingers like the silver moonlight.

He moans again, his body tensing underneath mine, and that beautiful round bulge brushes slowly, deliberately against the solid tent in my trousers. Would you believe I see fucking stars?! Yeah, me neither, but I do. A whole, shiny universe of them.

“Someone’s impatient…” I gasp, and bury my face in his neck for the kind of punishment he likes.

“Merlin, babe… how could I not?” he whimpers, his neck arching beautifully under my lips to give them access. “I’ve been waiting for this for years and years… and now I’m finally with the star of my every wanking fantasy – you can’t possibly expect any self-restraint, love…”

Look, I know it’s just a word, yeah? Just lovers’ gibberish, just a word – but it gets me so high, I desperately want to show him how very much. My hand lands on his hard cock still caught in his trousers, covering it whole, I love how his hips fly off the surface to meet it.

“ _JesusfuckingChrist_!” he moans as I press my hand down harder, and he begins to grind against it like his life depends on it. “Please, Ron…”

At this point I realise that I don’t _actually_ have a clue what he wants me to do… but he drives me so crazy with all those needy sounds that I can’t just lie there like a dead log and do nothing, can I? Gryffindor courage and all that. I’m just going to play this one by ear. So I slowly pull back my hand from that tempting bulge, making him whimper, and I sit straight up on top of him. 

I never managed to open the heavy curtains in the morning, and, in the semi-darkness of my tiny bedroom, his pale skin seems like the only source of light. His lithe body is safely cradled between my knees, and our cocks would be hard pressed one against the other, if it wasn’t for all the fabric still stuck between us. Not for long, if I can help it, though. I look down at my beautiful prey, caught between my legs, and the surge of heady pride and raw power is overwhelming.

I slide my finger down his body slowly, past all the tiny buttons of the silken shirt I’ve put so much effort in to close, all the way down to the slim waist, and lower, where my prize awaits. God, he’s a sight to remember. His too-long hair has escaped from the improvised little ponytail, and it surrounds his pale face like heavenly aura. The grey eyes are lit up like never before, the black nearly consuming the silver ring, and he’s looking up at me like in a trance.

“When did you get so gorgeous?” he breathes, and I lean down to thank him with another kiss because I didn’t even know myself how much I needed him to say something like that.

“You should see yourself,” I tell him honestly, and my stupid voice trembles a little. “Prettiest sight I ever laid my eyes on.”

All right, so I’m an idiot who doesn’t do compliments. But he just smiles as if I’ve said something really nice. His smile is that brilliant sunshine that makes my heart, uhm, dazzled - but suddenly it fades, as if he remembered something, and before I know it, it’s no longer there.

“But you only got the worst of me,” he says quietly, almost bitterly, as if this was somehow an undisputed fact. 

“Don’t be silly,” I kiss him, and I keep on kissing him, to chase all the darkness away. “I’ll take the worst of you over anyone’s best any time of the day.”

“Such a flirt,” he whispers and whimpers when my tongue brushes across his ear. “I wish…”

But he doesn’t finish the sentence, and I don’t think I want him to. There’s nothing but heartbreak at the other side of it, and, if this is to be our one time together, I’d rather not go there. So instead, I sit back up and I don’t say much anymore. I just tear the neat, white shirt apart, the little mother-of-pearl buttons flying into the darkness around us like fireflies, and he inhales sharply at my savagery. He likes it, I can tell. His cock likes it.

I outline the beautiful contours of his body with my hands and I can’t quite believe I was given a chance to play with something so precious. He’s perfect in every way. His skin is so pale it seems to glow in the dark and even the pale pink nipples are dark by comparison. He looks… exquisite. Patrician. Untouchable. Definitely too good for me. I brush my fingers across his nipples gently, half-expecting him to hiss an insult at me for daring to ruin this perfection… only he doesn’t. He just gasps a quick _“Yes… please… more…”_ – and he really doesn’t have to ask me twice. I can’t wait to taste them.

I suck the precious pink gems in my mouth, first one, then the other, and a soon as my tongue flickers across the tender flesh, he whimpers needily and pushes his fingers into my hair, as if he wants to make sure I don’t quit what I’m doing. _No worries, love, I wouldn’t dream of it._ I love worrying the little nubs with my mouth, I could lick, and nibble on them, and fucking _worship_ them all day long. But then he pulls on my hair with enough urgency to draw my attention, and I finally look him in the eye. His lips are swollen from our kissing frenzy, and there’s a deep pink flush in those high cheekbones. He looks halfway gone, and absolutely fuckable.

“I’m going to embarrass myself if you keep doing that,” he blurts out, his breathing quick and heavy. “And I don’t want to… if it’s just this once… I want… I want everything… you… all the way. I want you, Ron. All of you.”

My fingers are already rushing to open the bloody old-fashioned buttons on his trousers when he says my name. My name from his lips – that’s, like, some magic word, opening all the floodgates and eradicating whatever little is left of my restraint. If I had anything to say I would have probably forgotten it all when my hand suddenly finds itself wrapped around the long thick hardness and he gives an achy, needy moan that charges the very air around us with the most primal urge to fuck, to push my cock inside him, break everything in my way, and pound my name into him until I could no longer hear him beg for more.

“Ron, please… more, baby, please…”

I… I was never aggressive during sex. I might have been a bit on the dominant side, and I loved taking charge, but goddammit, I never took without asking, and I always checked, sometimes nervously so, if whatever I was doing still felt right. But this time it’s different. I don’t want to hold back; I don’t feel the need to check if he wants the same thing I want; his needs are my needs and I _know_ I’m getting it right.

I know that he is going to love it when I greedily lick his cock from the swollen balls to the proud, leaking tip, tearing whatever is left of the unfortunate trousers apart so I could see it all, own it all, give it all. As soon as his thick, pink cock disappears between my lips, a long lust-filled wailing tears away from his mouth, and it’s such a godless, savage sound that it triggers something primitive, raw and majestic inside of me that just wants to be acknowledged, heard and felt. It wants to fucking roar and rule and ruin this needy little creature that dared waking it up.

He tastes gorgeous, a little salty, a little musky, and like a million galleons worth of cock, so I let him fuck my mouth a little longer even though it’s my first time and I’m still figuring this out, almost choking but then not quite, but I’d fucking choke and run out of air just to be able to hear those incredible sounds he makes, sounds of someone who’s lost to the world, of someone living out his dream. I’m totally loving this. I love to hear him whimper, and I love to hear his dirty mouth blurt out string after string of obscenities with no control whatsoever.

But we both know this is not our last stop, this is not what we’re here for. When I can feel him growing thicker and thicker inside the slick cave of my mouth, I know I’ve taken it far enough. I let go of him and drown his protests with a raw, filthy kiss that tastes of him and shuts him up completely. And then I let my hand replace my mouth on his cock because I need to feel him again; I think I might be addicted to the feeling of his rod pulsing madly in my fist. Without thought I free my cock and take it in my own hand because I just know he’s ready to see it… and because he deserves to know what he asked for.

“ _MerlinChrist_ , Ron… oh fuck… Merlin, baby…” he whimpers with such sweet worship and awe that I feel like giving it to him right now, without bothering to find out how to do this right.

But I want to keep myself in check, I do, so I only stroke my shaft once, twice, to get a feel of it, of how thick, long, and angry it has become. It’s throbbing like it’s about to blow its load, and I end up having to squeeze it to tone down my own excitement.

“Do you want it?” I ask him, and I can barely recognise my hoarse voice, thick with some mad, dark lust. “Because this is what you’re going to get. It’s all yours, and I’m going to give you every-damn-throbbing-inch of it until that perfect sweet arse of yours is bursting so full of it you can’t _ever_ imagine living without it again. I’m going to own you, and I’m going to ruin you the way you could only dream to be ruined, you needy little slut. No one’s ever going to fuck you so full again, Draco Malfoy. Never. No one.”

“Yes… no one… you… now… _ohGodRonplease_ …”

You know, I’ve never done it – but I’m not completely oblivious as to _how_ it’s done. You can’t go living for seven years in all-boys dorms and having as many brothers as I do without seeing something, figuring out another thing and learning a thing or two, even if you want no part of it. I still remember the charm I’ve heard whispered in the dead of the night so many times, and the muffled, poorly concealed sounds of lust and ecstasy that followed. It sounded good back then and it made me curious enough to commit the charm to my memory, though I never thought I’d need it myself. 

But I want to taste him first. His cock in my mouth was one of the most mind-melting, incredible experiences I’ve had in bed – and the need to have more of that. After all, this was going to be our first and our last time, and I was never getting another chance. I can’t hold it off for too long, though, because I’m getting desperate and he’s got that beautiful pleading look in his eyes I never thought I would see on that patrician face, and I just want to make all of his dreams come true. So, I vanish our clothes – not that I haven’t ruined them beyond repair in my urge to own him, so good riddance – and I look at my naked, priceless prize.

He’s all long, lean limbs, perhaps a tad skinny, but in such perfect harmony as if he was crafted by the gods themselves to set a standard of divine perfection. His translucent skin, the light aura of his silken, blond hair and those silver eyes do nothing to eradicate the impression that he’s, in fact, an ethereal creature, made of dreams and remnants of the half-light in my humble flat unworthy of his presence. It feels unreal when he reaches up to me and pulls me down for a kiss. His lips are hot, damaged and swollen, and I love the way he reminds me he’s alive, and wanting and mine, if only for a few stolen moments of madness.

I love kissing him, I love how intimate and filthy, wrong and only right it feels, I could totally lose myself in his mouth again. But we’re finally both naked and our hard, swollen shafts are pressed against each other, and I can feel every surge of blood between us. He’s moving his hips minutely, rocking into me, making those undoing, helpless sounds, and grinding almost invisibly, and I know he’s getting close, too close to the edge – and I don’t want to finish it quite yet. I need more. I need to give him more.

So, I kiss him one last time, and slide down his body. I need to mark it and remember it and make him remember me. I weave an intricate necklace made of little licks, bites and kisses around that long elegant neck, making him moan deliciously, and I’m happy when my efforts leave visible pink marks on his skin. I continue kissing and licking my way down the perfect map of tense muscles under his silken skin, brushing my lips against the perky nipples, painting a trail of worship and lust with my mouth down to those tempting hipbones that I eagerly suck in my mouth and make him release an endless litany of mindless filth mixed with my name. I could never get tired of hearing him say my name. I don’t think anyone’s ever made me feel so needed.

Finally, I’m just inches from the soft blond carpet under his navel, leading to that rock-hard cock that makes my mouth water. I give it a slow, delightful lick and I kiss away the juices leaking from the tip, just to remember the taste of him, and as hard as it is to ignore a breathless _“Ron… God…”_ I’m a man on a mission, and I don’t stop there. I spread his long, lean legs apart and I kneel between them, like a worshipper in front of a shrine. I take a moment to admire how bloody gorgeous he is, flushed pink, excited and so ready to take all of me. Only then I sink my head between his thighs and I taste _everything_.

The tender skin on the inside of his thigh that makes him whimper and rub his cock against my cheek in a hopeless attempt at some friction. The tempting, shapely balls I take in my mouth one by one, sucking on them gently and making his eyes roll backwards. The innocent patch of sensitive skin just under his balls that I crisscross with my tongue, and I have to close my fist under the base of his cock to stop him from coming. I can’t wait to delve into him. My own unrelenting, irrational desire to be inside him scares me; it’s like I have no control over it and I won’t be content until I make it happen. This was our unspoken agreement, this is what we committed to, when we took this road to madness.

I lick and kiss my way to the puckered little hole that will never in a million years be big enough to take me it; how could it? It’s tiny and tender and how could he ever think…?

“Have you done this before, then?” I blurt out, and my voice is so heavy it’s almost a groan.

I look him in the eye and the flicker of pain is so brief I nearly miss it. He swallows nervously.

“Yes,” he says hastily, and then his voice turns to whisper: “Just… don’t ask. Not right now. Please.”

There’s so much pleading in his voice, that I feel like a right proper git for even bringing it up. I even shut down the uncalled-for, hot surge of jealousy, rearing its ugly head. The little flicker of pain told me I had nothing to be jealous about.

“I just… I’d rather not hurt you, if I can help it,” I hear myself mumble in a way of apology, and his eyes light up like the moonlight.

“You couldn’t do it if you tried,” he whispers. “I’m not going to break, I promise. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Because you’re just right,” he looks straight at me with those big, silver eyes. “You’re just right for me, Ron. And I only want more of you. I’d keep you if I could.”

I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t melt into a bloody puddle right there and then.

“Just promise you’ll tell me if you want me to…” I tell him in a choked voice, because I feel like thanking him _somehow,_ and I know it would only come out clumsy and stupid.

“I won’t have to,” he shakes his head with determination. “But if you’re going to feel better: I promise… _Merlinfuck_ , Ron…!”

I don’t need to hear more. I sweep my tongue across the tender, puckered flesh and hold him down when his hips fly off the mattress. 

“Fuck me, Ron… baby, you need to get that monster of a cock inside of me and fuck me just right… the way you only know how… I’ve been wanking with your name on my lips… for years now, I need you to slam that rough, hard cock into me and fuck me senseless…”

Now, isn’t this just the most perfect blend of begging and profanity? Add some of those undoing, shameless sounds he makes – and I’m barely holding back whatever simmering load is boiling at the bottom of my own swollen cock. So, I get full down-and-dirty for him. I lick every inch of the sensitive skin between his lovely round buns, I slurp, and kiss and bathe him whole with my mouth – and all this time the tiny hole is practically begging for my attention, scaring me and tempting me all the same.

Is he right? Can I really make it fit? Oh, he better be! I’ll fucking implode of frustration if it doesn’t; I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something quite as much. The very thought of it sets my guts on fire and sends sparks down my cock. No time like now… I guess… I breach him with my tongue and all those previous delicious sounds he made have got _nothing_ on the hardcore wail that tears out of his mouth. Oh, this I can totally do… I start tongue-fucking him in earnest and because I’m a bloody Gryffindor I no longer hold back. Time for the charm I’ve sneaked off the other boys. This bloody thing better work!

I point my wand at the palm of my hand, and say the word. My hand fills with the clear, thick liquid, smelling subtly and sweetly, and I guess the word _glorious_ describes my feelings pretty well in this moment. Well, no time like now…

I probingly push one finger inside of him, just a bit, and his whole body stills for a second. All right, how did I already fuck up?!

“Go on,” he says quietly. “Just go on, yeah? Take it slow and keep going, and don’t you dare fucking quit because no matter how you think this makes me feel – I love it. I love everything about this… about us.”

God, did I _ever_ need to hear this, or what?!

“All right,” I breathe, add more of the clear liquid just to be on the safe side. I try again but this time I don’t stop but keep pressing along, slowly, and as gently as I can, and it’s truly amazing to feel him relax around me. I grow bolder with every passing moment and when he breathes _“I want more… more of you”_ I don’t think twice about adding another finger.

He goes still again, but this time, I don’t let it scare me away. I move my fingers diligently to stretch him – because that’s the plan, right? – and I incidentally brush against _something_ … some golden spot inside of himthat makes him release a long helpless moan, so different from the others that I’m not sure if I did something very right or too fucking wrong. His whole body is still shivering when he blurts out:

“ _JesusfuckingChrist_ , Ron… what the fuck…?! Don’t stop… don’t you _dare_ fucking stop… this was… _ohGodpleaseyessss_ …”

I got the message, all right? I rub the sweet little spot inside him again and again, with that beautiful arse of his clenching around my fingers, and I love watching him turn into a mess. I watch him carefully: I know when he comes close again – and I also know he doesn’t want to come like this. I add the third finger now, without asking, because I finally dare to, and I’ve finally come to believe that he can take anything I have to give him. I give him a minute to adjust, listening to his heavy breathing, and just admiring his lovely face with his eyes closed tight as he’s trying to master his body to accept this new intrusion, and longing to kiss the puffy, damaged lips I’ve ravaged. A pink necklace of my kisses still visible on the delicate skin around his neck, and he’s so lovely, I feel my balls draw tighter. At this point I could probably come just by watching him.

He buries his fingers into my hair unexpectedly, and he breathes a quiet: “I don’t think I can wait any longer. I really, really need you inside… Ron.”

He opens his eyes when he says my name, the rings of silver locking with my eyes.

“I need you inside, babe,” he repeats softly. “I don’t think I can live without you anymore.”

And here goes the lie we’ve so painfully constructed to protect ourselves. The crushing, heart-breaking sob dying in the thick air around us… this one is mine. I didn’t need to know I fell in love with Draco Malfoy. I really didn’t need to know right now. But it’s as clear as day to me. And I’ve got only this one time to give him everything that would have taken a lifetime to give. I need to give him the best of me.

My hands are on his hips now, his legs are spread apart as widely as he can make them, as if he wanted to lay himself out for me open and bare, all access, just for me. I push my throbbing cock into him, carefully, inch by inch, and I feverishly try not to come the second the tight walls close around me. I temper myself by watching the shock, pain, a strange sort of calm settle over his features, and I slowly slide into him, to our journey’s end. The time seems to stop from the second I’m inside of him, fully sheathed, fully surrounded by the warmth and tightness of this intimate place, and there must be something badly broken inside of me, because I’ve never felt more like crying.

“You fill me up so well, Ron,” he whispers. “I always knew you would. I always knew you were the one.”

 _“Shut it,”_ I want to tell him because the unbearable pressure on my cock has got nothing on the thick, crushing void smothering my heart. But I don’t say anything. The only words on my blundered mind right now are _“I love you”_ and _“Don’t fucking let me go”_ and I might break more than I fix with those.

He seems to understand as he pulls me down quietly; I reckon the heavy heaving of my chest must have given me away.

Our lips lock one last time, and it’s so raw and desperate, we might as well be saying goodbye.

“Fuck me,” he whispers into my mouth, kissing me hungrily, with the greed of someone who knows that there isn’t anything left to take. “Fuck me, Ron. I want everything you’ve got. I need you fucking tearing me apart. You promised to ruin me, love, and you need to do it right now. I need something to remember you by. I need you to break me and make me whole again. I’m only whole when I’m with you.”

I’m already rocking my hips when his legs close behind me, pulling me closer, impossibly close, until I lose myself completely in this incomprehensible wonder of a man. I vaguely register slamming into him with the force I didn’t know I had, I notice his back arching like a pagan offering in ecstasy, and in the distance, I hear the savage song of our love-making, a filthy litany of his pleas to fuck him harder, and a raw cursing and thick whispers of his name, that are all me. I fuck every inch of him, I fuck the very sign of breath out of him, just like I promised I would, I try to fuck the very pain out of him, and out of my goddamn dumb heart, and for one blissful, star-lit moment, I get there.

I hear him cry out my name, one last time, just a breathless attempt of a man falling across the edge to pull me with him into the bliss – and I can no longer hold back. Against the sound of a majestic roar – mine, it must be – the heavy load piling up at the bottom of my balls uncoils in a single brutal moment of release, and it’s all black and beautiful after that. It feels as if I was catapulted into a dark, ageless universe where everything is simple, motionless, made to shine. I float in the precious darkness for long moments, and there’s no pain, no knowledge that I have to let him go, just a lot of peaceful, soothing nothingness I want to keep. Slowly, the explosions in my body settle into one peaceful bliss, and only then I open my eyes.

I’m lying on top of him, and he’s so motionless underneath me, as if I’ve truly and utterly finished him off. But the blue vein in his neck is pounding wildly, telling me he’s very much alive, so I slip out of him, carefully, and a small wince on his face is the only thing testifying that he’s present in this world. He doesn’t try to stop me, but I don’t allow myself to dwell on that. I clean us with the simplest charm I can think of – seriously, I’m not up to any of the complex stuff – and then I allow myself to relax and use the last few moments I’ll ever get to admire him undisturbed.

He looks beautiful… utterly fucked empty… and strangely open. It’s as if our mad, unbridled coupling broke something on the very surface of him and this is not the same Malfoy I knew half of my life. He looks so at peace he’s almost fragile, and the faint pink tinge in his cheeks reminds me of the fairy-tale of the sleeping beauty. It suits him so very much that it makes my lips sting from a sudden urge to kiss him. He opens his eyes, grey once more, not the silver that makes my heart beat faster, but the hue is strangely uneven, as if there’s something lying underneath the surface that wasn’t there before. He closes his eyes again and does the unthinkable. He pulls me down for a kiss I dared not take, and sighs in a way that could only be described as content.

“’m so very tired,” he murmurs and pushes the blond head under my chin. “You, Mr. Weasley, are such a beast, honestly… I could sleep for forever and ever. Hold me?”

It was not so much of a question as it was a request but it’s so much more than I hoped for that you won’t hear me complain. I pull the nearest blanket over us, and he mumbles a sleepy: “Thanks, my love.”

Now, what does it tell you about me that even this small grace he will certainly not remember makes my heart beat faster?


	11. Chapter 11

I’m too tired to think right now, but I suppose that’s a blessing in disguise. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling… and I’ve never felt happier in my entire life. I was all fucked up and wrong, and he put me together again, just right.

Funny, how no one tells you that having all your dreams come true makes you crave more… Perhaps it’s just me, the greedy Slytherin. But I do. I crave more. I want… I want to keep him.

Only I can’t think properly right now and I can’t think of any way to do it. He’s wrapped around me like my favourite blanket and I’m listening to his heartbeat slowing down from the mad frenzy we got caught in, and I’m loving this all way too much to bother with thinking. I put my very heartbeat in my last few words before the darkness takes me: “Thanks, my love.”

~

I wake up, and it’s all dark around me. I have no idea of the time but I reckon it must be evening or some such. Something soft and – _furry?!_ – is wrapped up against me. Two pairs of yellow eyes are staring at me from the darkness, and I have the most fucked up idea that Malfoy had been turned into a two-headed creature by our forbidden coupling. _What?!_ You didn’t grow up with Fred and George reading you the fairy tales because your mum happened to be too busy! All kinds of fucked up shit was in there!

But then I hear the familiar, scary growling, and I know that this is worse than any fairy tale my evil twin brothers could come up with. _Kneazles._ I’m in bed with two bloodthirsty beasts who only crave raw meat! The two pairs of big yellow eyes are _way_ too close for comfort, and I try to reach out for my wand in a bout of blind panic. I’m fairly certain they’ve mistaken me for their next meal, and I frantically try to remember if I’ve fed them and when… But there’s no wand to be found, and I can already hear their menacing purring buzz in my ears and feel their hot breath on my face… Merlin, help, I’m about to get mangled!

But then a hot, terrifyingly rough tongue licks me from my chin to the top of my cheek and… _ewww_! Merlin! I think the unthinkable just happened: I got Kneazle-kissed! I’ve heard of that! It is as infamous – it is clear to me why – as it is supposed to be rare, and right now, when the other mean-spirited beast marks my other cheek, I’m rather thinking that getting eaten would be preferable. Of all the vile things…

“You smell of me,” a light chuckle hits me across the room, and there he is. Malfoy is leaning on the doorframe in all his lean, blond glory, wearing nothing but Harry’s old, discarded jogging bottoms, looking utterly delectable – and sporting a cheeky, bright smile that almost makes me forget I’m getting devoured – or adopted, not sure which – by a pair of murderous Kneazles.

“You smell of me and now you’re, like, their favourite toy in the whole wide world,” he explains, that cheeky, lovely smile growing even wider, and, even in my thoroughly salivated misery, I can’t help but thinking he’s the most beautiful creature ever to grace my life.

“Shoo, off you go, you two, that is _mine_ ,” he casually points to me, and the Kneazles sprint off the bed without as much as a miaow. Wait – _what_? Did he just… did Malfoy just call me _his own_? I… nah, it must have been some mistake. I always make the most stupid ones; interpreting everything wrongly and such. I look at his smiling face, looking for answers, but he merely shakes his blond head and murmurs: “Merlin, those big blue bedroom eyes of yours… Could you, like, not tempt me for once?”

And with this cryptical – well, not just cryptical but it-might-as-well-be-in-ancient-Aramaic – message, he turns around and slaps something that looks suspiciously like a kitchen towel across his naked shoulder. And I just sit there on the bed, trying to pick up my jaw from the mattress, and trying to figure out if I’m accidentally still stuck in some warped dream where Kneazles try to kiss me rather than eat me, and where, apparently, I’m a proud owner of very tempting bedroom eyes.

“Food is almost ready!” he shouts from the kitchen – and I finally realise what woke me up. The most _delicious_ smell of food in the world. So, uhm, Malfoy is cooking… or baking… and generally using my kitchen… what’s left of it. The one that tried to kill him this morning. Uhm, can I go back to the warped dream, please? I think I woke up in the wrong reality…

But – guess what? Even in a world completely upside down, I’m still hungry. So, I head off to the bathroom first to, uhm, do the bathroom stuff and splash some cold water in my face in case that will help bring me to my senses. But when I peak out of the bathroom, and a moment later, into the kitchen, Malfoy is still there, shooing the annoying Kneazles out of his way to deliver steaming plates of food onto the table. And while the heavenly smell alone is enough to make my knees rattle… the sight of the lean, blond god in my kitchen is a whole different level entirely. I’d crawl to the table if I wasn’t too frightened to be on the same level with the Kneazles.

There’s an actual meal on the plate, imagine that. Pork roast with gravy and rosemary potatoes. I didn’t even know I owned meat. But then I hear the angry, greedy miaowing and I remember I’ve actually purchased some of the best quality meat for the hairy monsters – only I kept trying to serve it to them prepared, rather than raw.

“How...?” But I’m so hungry I can’t even finish the sentence. I assault the food like it’s my worst enemy that can only be annihilated by stuffing large portions of it in the stomach, and with the corner of my eye I see him shake his head with an incredulous smile.

“Merlin,” he mumbles, “you’re messier than ever… and just as insatiable.”

“Any good?” he asks when he spots my eyes on him, and I’m just waving my fork around in what is meant to be an enthusiastic gesture because I’m too busy trying to eat every speck of the culinary perfection in case it somehow magically disappears. I’ve still got traumas from Hogwarts, you know.

“Heavenly,” I finally choke out, and he chuckles lightly, looking delighted. He finally tackles his own, much smaller plate of food, with infinitely more grace than I could possibly muster.

“How?” I try again, and this time I actually swallow before I open my big mouth.

“Oh, you know, it was all there,” he shrugs. “I might not have properly identified food in its raw form this morning – I can’t say I was ever involved in preparing the meals back home – but I woke up starving, and then I discovered this truly wonderful magical drawer with all sorts of written instruction booklets in it on how to use your Muggle kitchen equipment – fascinating stuff, really. And right next to it, there was your mother’s recipe book – which, by the way, would be worth a fortune in the right hands – so I got to work. I confess it was rather… magical, not being able to use my wand, and still have things come out as they were intended… well, more or less,” he says with a smile. “I totally botched the desserts, I’m afraid. They had to go in the bin.”

I confess his words leave me a little… rattled. This is Draco Malfoy as I’ve never known him before: clever, brave – adventurous even, it took me a month to figure that damn machinery out! – and as resourceful as they come. But I still can’t get one thing off my mind.

“But why?” I want to know. “Why go through all this trouble? Why not just wake me up and…”

“Oh, I suppose I wanted to try something new… challenge myself a bit… see, if I could get used to it,” he finishes so quietly I can barely make out his words – but this last bit makes my heart soar like a bird breaking free from captivity. Could he really be saying what I think he’s saying?

“This was the best meal _ever_ ,” I tell him honestly, and seeing his eyes light up is all the dessert I need.

“Oh, you know what they say: when it’s made with love…”

He looks me straight in the eye across the table, and bites his lip gently, and I’m just kind of sitting there with the blood pounding in my ears, and not quite certain if I should move, because – deal or no deal – I just might jump him.

“Draco…”

“Clean this for me?” he says quickly, and hands me over my wand, pointing to a massive pile of bowls and dishes – and God damn that man, when my fingers brush against his, I can barely remember the most common household spell I’ve been using since forever.

“I’ve had quite a satisfying nap,” he says innocently, stretching his long limbs, and _MerlinChrist_ … I swallow, because I finally notice what’s been staring me in the face all this time: there’s a map of our love-making all across his naked torso. There’s a dangerous-looking purple hickey just at the base of his elegant neck, a faint bite-mark around one of his nipples, and blue marks of my goddamn fingerprints just above his hips. And that’s just a fraction of it. There’s more, much more. Look, I know he likes it rough, and I as sure as hell liked giving it to him rough, but this… Merlin, I’ve mangled him.

“But I’m not up to much, to be honest,” he says softly, never taking his eyes of me. “I just don’t want to go back to sleep yet. Care for a round of Wizard’s chess?”

“I…” I’m still lost for words. “Looks like I’ve beaten you quite badly enough already,” I finally choke out, unable to take my eyes off the marks I left on his body, and feeling the most confusing mixture of shame and hopeless arousal. These marks mean something, God dammit. They tell a story. The one of me, being a brute, surely, but also… also the one of him letting me own him. His body bears witness to all.

“Oh, you mean those?” he asks quietly, and there’s a hint of seductive darkness in his eyes when he purposefully brushes against a purple bruise under his clavicle. “I’d wear those in public if I could.”

“Draco, you can’t…” Jesus, he takes my breath away. What the fuck is this fresh new madness?!

“So, Wizard’s chess?”

His silver eyes – silver! – are challenging me, and all I can do is nod quietly. I’ve taken every one of his baits. Why change now?

I get up and head for the living room, not even bothering to conceal the unfortunate, very real hard-on I’m sporting. He knows it’s there anyway. He made it happen.

I brightly – not – set the chessboard in the middle of my tiny couch – because that’s where Harry and I always play, but Malfoy is no harmless Harry, and I really should have had more sense than that. But it is what it is now, and I have no good excuse to move the board onto the table, so I set up the pieces, and hope for the best. It’s a testimony to how all over the place I am, when the horse of the black Knight tries to bite me for setting him on the wrong side of the board. Seriously, the state I’m in, a three-year-old troll could beat me.

“Ready for me?” he asks with a wicked smile, and… uhm… I know it might sound pretentious but it sounds like he’s… flirting? With me? But we’ve already… And we said we never would again…! I look at him across the board in confusion, and I meet his eyes, as if he never took them off me.

“Not sure that I am,” I mumble, and my voice is scratchy and about as stable as a hippogriff in high heels. I literally have to force my eyes off him, or I would have pulled him across the chessboard and fucked him into the sorry couch that definitely can’t take it.

“So, what are we playing for?” he asks matter-of-factly.

“Excuse me?” Er, to win? How is that not the purpose?

“We should be playing for something,” he declares. “That will make it more interesting.”

“Uhm, all right,” I agree dumbly. Oh Lordy, why did I agree? I can’t win with my brain clearly fucked out of my skull, and I haven’t got that much to lose, I’ll have you know. And he – he has even less than I. What kind of a fucked-up game is that anyway?!

“Splendid,” he says with that leisurely smile of a Kneazle that just ate the whole nest of delicious mice. “You go first. What is it that you want?”

“Uhm… errr… nothing,” I blurt out with a sparkling wit of a baby-ghoul because, honestly, I wasn’t expecting this, and I really don’t want anything that I should be wanting, all right?! I’m pretty sure that humping Malfoy and trying to kiss that smirk off his face doesn’t count as a legitimate wish. Nah. Never.

“I’ve already got everything I want,” I add miserably and look across the chessboard straight at him. Ooooh, damn. Hagrid got it right: _I shouldn’t have done that._ His face positively lights up with that cheeky, bright smile that makes him seem so very un-Malfoyian, and I’m sitting there like a sack of dumb potatoes and trying to persuade my cock not to Apparate across the table.

“That’s… brilliant,” he says sweetly, and not without a hint of smugness. “Then how about we do like this: we play and whoever loses gets to pick something as a consolation prize. You could, for example, choose for me to cook for you again,” he proposes innocently – he even blinks, the bastard!

“Or you could put a shirt on,” I propose weakly because my eyes keep darting towards that lean body I’ve marked and I haven’t quite got enough of – and now I never will – and I’m… distracted. To put it _very_ mildly.

The radiant, if rather ferocious smile tells me that he’s delighted I chose to play his game.

“Of course, I could,” he says sweetly. “Providing that you have something not quite so ghastly orange as the previous garment you’ve forced upon me. But by all means, that’s a good example of what you _could_ wish for. You could even put it on me yourself.”

Uhm, why can’t I shake the feeling that this is a well-set trap and I’m walking straight into it?

“I don’t think this is…” I start nervously, catching on too late that I’m being played, but because this is Malfoy, and he’s entirely in his serpent element, I don’t get very far.

“It is only fair! This way also the losing party has something to look forward to,” he says smoothly. “Isn’t that the Gryffindor way? No hard feelings and everyone’s jolly in the end?”

If you ask me, this is _not_ how I would describe the general spirit of being a Gryffindor but I have to admit that it _does_ sound fair – and that’s exactly the problem. Never in a million years would a cunning Slytherin serpent care about fair and square – and Malfoy is about as pure-blood Slytherin as they come. I mean, the Sorting Hat was practically shouting his chosen house from the second he walked through the door! Why would _he_ care about fair and square? Oh, in times like this I really do miss Hermione – she would have him figured out in about two seconds flat, but I just can’t seem to quite put my finger on the elusive shady point in his proposal.

But, as if the gods have heard me, my fireplace suddenly whooshes to life and the outline of a familiar face appears in the coals. I’ve actually summoned Hermione – with my thoughts only, imagine that!

“Ron!” she shouts rather nervously but her voice relaxes at the sight of me. “Oh, there you are! How are things over at your end? Is everyone all right?”

“Hello, Hermione, it’s nice to see you, too,” I respond rather sardonically but my sarcasm seems lost on her as she only rolls her eyes and tells me in a cranky voice.

“Oh, cut it off, Ronald! You know I haven’t got time for that. I’m actually very busy. The trial is in four days, and I’ve been summoned by Harry himself to help him out at the Ministry with the security issues. I have to put my studies on hold – again! Oh, I know it’s only for a few days but it _does_ interrupt the learning process so… But it is nice to see you, as always,” her face finally softens as if her own rudeness had somehow caught up with her.

But now I’m the one who no longer cares. Harry would never interrupt Hermione wrapping up her N.E.W.T.s at Hogwarts unless there was a serious issue. Something’s up, that much I can tell.

“Is there a problem?” I ask without beating around the bush, and the sharp tone of my voice even takes me by surprise. But, you see, if there’s something wrong, I need to know. I can’t protect Malfoy if I don’t know what I’m up against – and the second I refused to bring him to St. Mungo’s I had taken it upon myself to protect him. Perhaps I haven’t said it explicitly but I know what I’ve done: from that moment on I had put my life on the line for him, and the very thought of him being in any kind of danger…

“Well, the word got out – Merlin knows how – that Narcissa Malfoy is up for testifying next,” Hermione sighs. “Someone’s clearly been careless – or malicious, we’re still investigating which – and now the whole world’s gone mad! She’s the last big name that has yet to appear before the Wizengamot, and not much is known about her role in Harry’s survival. Barely anyone knows Harry’s about to testify on her behalf, and many expect her to be convicted. So, not only there’s reporters from whatnot publication and country swarming the Ministry for information – and that’s a lot of unknown faces to screen, Ron – there are also without a doubt some among them who hold great interest in Madam Malfoy keeping her mouth shut.”

I chance a quick glance at Malfoy and he’s as pale as a gravestone. He appears composed but there’s a look in his eyes that reminds me of a wild animal, backed into a corner, and my heart squeezes in my chest. My hand moves behind my back without as much as consulting my brain, and he wraps his long, icy fingers around it with the speed of a man drowning who had found the last straw to hang on to. If only I could hold him… I’d love to hold him right now.

“Well, obviously it is very much in the interest of Draco’s mother to be as honest as possible,” Hermione says adamantly. “The information she holds is invaluable to us and she knows it. Now, and as far as we know, no one’s got any leverage on her to stop her from cooperating… unless someone gets ahold of the one thing she holds dear above all…”

She pauses but she really doesn’t have to. I got the message, loud and clear.

“How is Draco, Ron?” she asks quietly. “It is absolutely imperative that he is unharmed and well enough to attend. She made it perfectly clear she won’t say a word unless her son is present and she has been properly assured of his well-being. If he appears weak and unwell…”

“I’m perfectly fine,” he speaks behind my back in such familiar bored Malfoyian drawl that it literally makes me jump. I almost forgot this was his actual voice! His hand lets go of mine, and he gracefully slides off the couch and into the narrow space between me and the fireplace. This way, he’s giving Hermione a chance to take a really good look at him… which would, of course, be a very practical and clever thing to do – if he had actually bothered to put on a shirt. Oh, Merlin’s hanging balls... All of my savagery is on full display, and… o _hbloodygreat_. I’ll consider myself lucky if a bunch of Aurors don’t barge in before the evening is done!

“Ronald’s been… _very_ thorough in his efforts to take care of me,” the blond menace says smoothly, completely ignoring the sharp intake of breath I can hear coming from the fireplace. “As it should be obvious since I’ve been properly restored to my full capacity.”

“Are those…?” I hear Hermione’s voice, filled with disbelief, and I kind of want to fall through the floor to the bottom of the earth right now, so please kindly stay out of my way.

“Oh… yes,” he says with a feral smile. “You would probably know some of those,” he shamelessly points to the purple hickey at the bottom of his neck. “ _Love_ bites – is that not how they’re called?”

All right, I’m about two-inches tall right now… or at least I wish I was so I could hide from Hermione’s fury. I’m afraid to even look at her.

“Malfoy,” she says, still sounding incredulous, but – strangely enough – not furious but rather… entertained?! “Are you seriously _flaunting_ having had sex with Ron?”

Wot?! I mean… what is she on about – _flaunting_?! And why isn’t she upset?! She should be upset! This is all wrong!

“Absolutely,” the evil Slytherin nightmare says seriously. “It was definitely something to flaunt. He’s _exceptionally_ talented in that department… as you might have noticed.”

“Well, yes,” she says grumpily. “It has come to my attention, and, frankly, having a bit of a dry spell myself at the moment…” she sighs wistfully but at the sight of our faces, with our jaws unhinged, she quickly murmurs: “Never mind. Enough about the good old times.”

“But…but… how are you not more surprised?! Or angry?! I thought you’d be angry!” I finally find my tongue albeit it doesn’t seem to be working quite well.

“Indeed,” Malfoy has the good grace to agree. “I thought you’d be throwing a hissy fit at the very least! And you don’t even have the decency to act surprised!”

“Oh, come _on_ , you two!” she rolls her eyes, her expression smug. “You couldn’t possibly have thought I wouldn’t _notice_! A blind troll could not have missed it! You, Ron, going all pig-headed on me, with that look in your eye, that possessive one… oh, you know perfectly well which one! And you, Malfoy – getting up half dead only to argue that you wanted to stay with your champion. _Puh-lease!_ It was as clear as day that you two randy Krups wouldn’t be able to keep your paws to yourselves for long,” she smirks – and, honestly, I’m shocked by the implications! I managed to bravely defend my celibacy for a few hours, you know!

“Well, yes… it’s not my fault Weasley here is quite irresistible,” Malfoy gives a deadpan shrug.

“Yes, apparently quite so much that you had to jump him _in public_ ,” Hermione comments dryly.

Oops… I should have known word would get out. I mean, I’m practically a regular at that café – and I don’t think they get too many tall, red-headed men with skinny, blond menaces hanging around their necks daily.

“And that’s why I’m actually bothering you – even at the risk of interrupting, ehm, certain leisurely activities. You two idiots can never do this again,” her voice turns deadly serious.

Hey! Look, I know Malfoy and I have already established that this, uhm, transgression was to be our one and only time but I’m kind of reluctant to take it as an order from Hermione, you know!

“Do _what_ – again?” Malfoy asks calmly, but there’s an edge to his voice that takes me by surprise. He seems equally agitated about Hermione’s nerve to interfere with our… uhm… er… look, I know that _relationship_ sounds like the wrong word, implying permanence and such, but right now… I need time to think of a better one.

“Well, go out together in public, of course!” she barks, irritated at our evident inability to read her thoughts. “It’s entirely too dangerous.” Oh… oh.

“At least not until the trial is over,” she adds almost pleadingly. “You have to promise me that you won’t. I need you to be reasonable about this. Ron – I’m looking at you; you’re usually the reckless one. But know this: Harry’s got everyone reliable and competent guarding the Ministry and Draco’s mother – including all of your brothers – but no one’s job is more important than yours. If something was to happen to Draco here…”

She doesn’t need to finish. I’m actually ashamed not to have thought of it myself. Of course, it was an entirely mad idea to go out in the first place. I ought to know better. In the days after the war Harry and I were mostly engaged in witness protection – and I’m telling you, that job’s bloody hard. There are always nutters galore around, hiding behind every bush and under every skirt!

“All right,” I mumble, back to feeling like my usual self, that is: like an idiot. “We won’t go out anymore. I reckon we can stay inside for four sodding days. But Malfoy here is going to need proper clothes,” I remind her. “We were actually on our way to Madam Malkin this morning when we got, er, distracted. He’s got nothing to wear to the trial. And we’re going to need food. Lots of it. You know what I like – and he could use putting on some weight, or his mother is going to hex us in the butts, courtroom or not!”

“Food and clothes, right, leave that to me,” she murmurs. “All right, I best be going now. Should I tell Harry about you and…” She wiggles her eyebrows in Malfoy’s direction, and I hastily say _“Don’t bother”_ at the same time that Malfoy says “ _You might as well.”_  
  
Is it me or am I losing the plot of that _“just this once”_ thing?

“Right… right,” she says with a small smile in the corner of her mouth.

“Oh, and just before I go… Draco,” she turns towards Malfoy, and she’s got that determined, scary, slightly demented look in her eyes – you know, the one that makes me think of canaries and other dangerous rot.

“I wish I had a chance to say this privately but since this is virtually impossible in this shoebox of a place, I’m just going to give it to you like this: If you as much as _bruise_ , let alone _break_ anything – and I mean _anything_ – of importance to Ron, I’ll hit you with everything I’ve got. You won’t even see it coming. _Everything. I. Have. Got._ Understood?”

“I understand,” he nods solemnly. Well, I don’t, not really. It feels like I’m once again missing a clue everyone else’s been told about… but I reckon now is not a good time to mention the microwave he already broke?

“Ron, I love you,” she blurts out quickly. “We all do, don’t forget. Harry sends his regards, he can’t wait for this bloody trial to be over so you two can grab a pint. Be good, and I’ll see you at the trial.”

“Yeah, I… bye,” I tell her disappearing shadow because – as always – she’s too fast for me, and we’re never quite on the same page at the same time. Not to mention that we both hate goodbyes. I cried like a widower when we split – but only after she had left.

I collapse back on the couch – because that was intense, yeah – and I chance a look in Malfoy’s direction. The atmosphere is strangely thick, as if something has been left unsaid or only half-done.

“I guess you’re stuck with me,” I mumble in a sorry attempt to dissolve the tension. I’m not quite sure if this _“staying locked up together”_ is a good development or a disastrous one. “No Madam Malkin, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll manage,” he says calmly but there’s a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth as if he can’t quite stifle it. “Clothes are overrated anyway, and I’m sure you’ll think of something to entertain the poor underdressed me. Chess for starters?”

“Might as well,” I sigh. “Pick your colour.”

“White, obviously,” and then points to himself casually. “It only seems natural.”

“Right,” I mumble because my tiny couch has brought us sitting so close together that our knees are casually brushing against each other – and that tempting pale canvas of his skin is just a touch away. I’m afraid that if I stare for too long or – or too often – I might accidentally roll straight into his lap. I’m dangerously gravitating towards him as it is. 

“So – Granger,” he says matter-of-factly after I barely make my first move. “She’s quite a force of nature, isn’t she? It’s fairly obvious she still cares for you a great deal. Why did you two split, I wonder? Or is it merely one of those modern things, like taking a break?”

I can feel those grey, inquisitive eyes on me, and for some reason, he seems really invested in my answer.

“Oh, it’s quite permanent, I assure you,” I sigh because I’ll always carry a bit of guilt that I couldn’t make it work with the best girl on the planet. “We were always solid under pressure but the good times really got to us. I guess you could say our relationship sort of… fizzled out. You know – it got worn out by constant confrontation over everything and nothing,” I say awkwardly.

“Is that so?” He sounds uncommonly pleased. “So, there’s no chance of you two getting back together, is that what you’re saying?”

“God, no!” I mumble. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, we’re the best of friends – and always will be – but when we were together all we did was fight… Well, almost all,” I grunt, and I can feel my cheeks go red.

The make-up sex with Hermione was actually pretty much the best part of our struggling relationship, partly because that was the one time when she shut up and let me take the lead. She always used to say that I was _“a proper alpha”_ in bed and we both liked it that way. It just wasn’t enough. I can’t tell Malfoy that, though. I’m sure that there’s a way to misunderstand that I like fucking people into the ground to make them shut up. Well, not people. Just Hermione. And him. Malfoy. Draco. And he already knows.

“I suppose we had our moments,” I grunt when he still won’t say a damn thing. “It just wasn’t enough. We’re better off as friends. Your move,” I take his pawn and clear my throat, eager to change the conversation. But he merely looks at the chessboard as if he had forgotten what was the purpose of it, and then literally picks up a random piece from the chessboard and moves it in a random way. Ever saw a cursing bishop? That was my first as well!

“Sorry,” he says, sounding so very not sorry, that I’m beginning to doubt he’s even trying to win. But it’s not like I’m in my best state of mind either. My thoughts keep running off in all directions, and it suddenly dawns on me that I’ve just laid my relationship with Hermione bare for him – for what reason, precisely?

“Uhm, so, why did you want to know about Hermione and I?”

“No reason,” he says quickly. “She just appears to miss you a great deal, so I was wondering… I mean, she obviously realises that breaking up with you was not the brightest idea she’s ever had,” he shrugs nonchalantly. “So I was merely wondering if you felt the same way.”

“What do you mean – not the brightest… I was _lucky_ to have her, you know!” I look at him incredulously. “I was the one not good enough! She can do so much better than me!”

“And yet – she doesn’t,” he says quietly. “Dry spell and all that, you’ve heard her.”

“Well, that’s just a temporary thing, you know,” I shift in my place uncomfortably because – like it or not – he has a point. “She never really has much time for romance when exams are ahead. I reckon once the N.E.W.T.s are behind her she’ll have a proper look around, find someone-“

“Half of what you’re worth?” he interrupts me, and his eyes are made of intense grey-silver magic I can’t look away from. “Yeah, that’s very likely.”

“That’s not what I-… Why did you tell her I was too good for her anyway?” I blurt out the thing that’s been tugging on my brain for a while. “You know, the first time she fire-called? You said… Well, I don’t think you were right, for the record, but why on earth would you make such a mad, absurd statement?”

His fingers still fiddling with the hissing bishop, he remains silent for so long that I’m starting to believe I won’t be getting my answer at all. I guess he just did it to shut her up. Yeah, there’s no good answer for a question like that. And no, that’s _not_ disappointment I’m feeling; it’s not! It’s just…

“Because it’s the truth,” he says unexpectedly, without really looking at me. “She never gives you the credit for anything you’d done for her. She’s a M-”

He stops abruptly, looks me in the eye, and smiles beatifically: “I was going to say _Muggle-born_ , Weasley, don’t go all momma bear on me.”

Which, I confess, makes me barely swallow my smile. I might be developing a bit of a soft spot for him lately, yet I would have decked him without a second thought had he called Hermione _that_ word.

“Just so we’re on the same page,” I murmur. I don’t want to make a big deal of it. I’m too interested in what he has to say.

“I was going to say that Granger was a Muggle-born, and yet you invited her into your home, into your life, without a second thought,” he picks up quietly. “Her, and Potter as well. But anyone would have welcomed Potter,” his face twists as if he just had something nasty to eat. “He was a star. He could have found a new home in any wizarding family. Yes, even mine,” he looks at me pointedly. “What did you think that offered hand was about in the first year? I was under orders. But Granger-”

He pauses, and then shrugs.

“Sure, she’s smart – and, God, she’s all too willing to share that with the rest of the world! – but that’s it. She would have been fairly lost without you, you know that?”

Actually… I can’t say I’ve realised. But another astute and sharp glance at my face tells me he’s dead serious. And for some reason, he wants me to know that. Yet, out of the old habit of protecting my friends, I feel like I should object.

“She would have been fine without me,” I mumble stubbornly. “She’d read heaps about our world before she stepped over that barrier at the Platform 9 and ¾, you know.”

“Oh, bollocks!” he says so angrily, I nearly wince. “She might have treated you as if you were hardly good enough for her, but how could you possibly think that what you gave her was irrelevant… that _you_ were irrelevant?! She didn’t grow up in our world, she knew _nothing_ of our ways – of the way we talk, the things we reference, the food we eat, the long and important tradition of the clothes we wear, the unspoken conventions and habits we follow, who’s important and who could be ignored – nothing, not a thing. You can’t get those things from the books, Weasley. Not _everything_ is in the books!”

Oh. Yeah, uhm, I kind of knew that. I just didn’t think of it that way.

“Face it, Ronald, she would have been friendless and so very lost without you,” he shrugs again. “She doesn’t have exactly an endearing character, and her cleverness – as beneficial as I’m sure it is – is first and foremost annoying. Being smart doesn’t necessarily provide good grounds for forming a friendship, you know. Her intelligence comes with an unbearable air of superiority and a rather unattractive ambition to prove it. She might have done well without you in the class but outside of that, I don’t think Hermione Granger would have had many friends,” he looks at me again with those clever, grey eyes as if checking if I agreed with him.

Well, I… uhm…

“But she really hit the jackpot with you, didn’t she?” he unexpectedly smiles faintly. “Not only did you learn how to tolerate her – let’s call it assertive – character, your surname opened the doors that would forever remain closed to her,” he continued calmly. “She’s clever enough to know that. The surname Granger means nothing in our world – _Weasley_ , however…”

That meaningful pause again. He doesn’t have to say more. We are pureblood. Mum and Dad tried to raise us as if it meant nothing, but of course, that was far from the truth out here, in the _very_ conventional real world that still likes to stick to its old ways. The pureblood families have an unspoken advantage over the newcomers. We have friends, family, acquaintances and connections all over the place. _We belong_. Hermione… not so much. For the first time ever, I realise that I – well, my family and I – had an actual worth to Hermione.

“You – and your family by extension – embraced Granger, took her places, introduced her to the right people, sucked her right in, so she could fit the way she never would have without you. You gave her a place to be the best she could be. Her, and Potter alike. Together, you became the Golden Trio, you were making a name for yourself out there, and you were barely in your teens! None of that would have been possible without you. They would have only had half an experience without you. But as much as everyone is busy raising the flags to Potter’s bravery and Granger’s brains, you don’t get that much credit, do you?”

Well… I… Look, what little I did, those aren’t the sort of things you can put in the songs and parade around, are they?! Nothing in my actions – other than that desperate chess game I played _for my dear life_ when I was twelve – is particularly worth a praise! You can’t really give someone credit for introducing you to the garden gnomes, self-knitting needles and letting them into your old family home with creaky stairs, wobbly walls, and a howling ghoul in the attic!

“They put me on the Chocolate Frog Card,” I object weakly. I can’t… I can’t just let him see how little I believe in my own importance. But he just shoots me one of those infuriating, small smirks, and… yeah, so much for fooling him.

“I dare say you can’t see your own worth,” he says quietly, thoughtfully, as if he’s just figuring it out as he goes. “Perhaps this is why you always gave them so much, even when you didn’t think you were giving them anything at all. Perhaps you thought you were just a charity case; that they would be better off without you?”

I have a knot the size of Hogwarts in my throat right now. I can’t utter a word to save my life. He’d made the same assumption as that bloody Horcrux that seemed to melt with my chest whenever I had to carry it in those endless, dark months we spent on the run. But that was a dark object, made with the help of ancient, sinister dark magic, charmed to prey on my deepest fears and insecurities, yet Malfoy had somehow – fuck if I know how! – arrived to the same conclusion, all on his own. No one knew how poor my self-esteem was, not even Harry until the Horcrux had spelled it out to him; how on earth did Malfoy figure it out?

“And yet you were willing to stick by them until the bitter end,” he breaks the heavy silence between us with an almost imperceptible sigh. “For you, everything was about Potter and his obsession with his grand destiny of fighting Vol… the Dark Lord until one of them perished. He used to drag you along to whatever-fuck-danger, and yet you stayed by his side come what may. But I…”

He looks at me, and shakes his head as if he wants to chase the unpleasant thoughts away.

“I always thought you’d end up like that unfortunate scoundrel, my mother’s cousin Sirius,” he says quietly, and something in his voice just turned so dark, it instantly makes my skin prickle. “In the end he was destroyed by his love for James Potter. He died protecting his legacy, his son. And I always thought that one day, you’d die protecting Potter as well.”

I’m… speechless once again. I never thought of it this way. I never thought anyone spared me any thought either, and here was Malfoy with a proper character study of me. It was always pretty much all about Harry for me, just like Malfoy said. He needed to be protected because the future of our world depended on him. I never thought about dying… but I know I would have done it for him. And you know what else I never thought about? Getting any credit for that.

And yet, here I was, in my modest one-person flat, nearly a year after the war I have no idea how I survived, sitting beside my once-arch-enemy – and if this is not bizarre enough, he, of all people, just acknowledged what no one else would: that I might not be the brightest – or the bravest of them – but that I would have given my everything for what needed to be done. I might be… erm, a little emotional right now.

“You know, for the longest time I was dreaming about having someone like you… and then I was just dreaming about you.”

“Me?!” My head snaps towards him so quickly I nearly give myself whiplash, but his grey eyes meet my incredulous stare unrelenting, unyielding. And I slowly come to terms with the fact that he’s not kidding.

“Moment of truth, Ronald,” he says with a tired smile. “I dare say you deserve it after…”

His hand slides through the silken fur of the ginger Kneazle which made himself comfortable in his lap, and he finishes the thought quietly: “… after what you did for me.”

Well, don’t count on me to stop him. My mouth still feels parched, as if it’s filled with rocks, and my mind seems to be swimming in the restless, grey sea in this new reality where Draco Malfoy is not shouting insults at me but thanking me in the strangest way possible.

“Well, for one, I was jealous of you from the very first moment on,” he says matter-of-factly, and excuse me while I pick up my poor shattered jaw from the floor. Jealous!? Of _me_?!

But he just shakes his head incredulously, as if he can’t quite believe how thick I am.

“What did you think all that blunt, blind hatred was all about? Of course I was jealous, you gave me every reason to be! How could I _not_ be, really? _Everyone_ was jealous of your friendship, of your mad, brave adventures, of your unbreakable bond – but no one nearly as much as I was. This should have been mine! I should have won Potter over, and then I would be the one having all the glory of being friends with the Chosen one. And you _stole_ that from me!”

He points at me from across the tiny couch, as if he was calling out to the court and jury that here I was, the culprit for all his life’s troubles… but then he smiles minutely, as if he just became aware how childish his gesture came across. His face softens when he does, and I… I really like him this way. That cheeky smile really takes off much of the edge in his grey eyes. He’s undoubtedly very, uhm, handsome when he smiles. Uff… where the hell am I going with this?! Why am I doing this to myself?

“Only, it soon became very apparent that there was very little glory to be had, didn’t it?” he continues quietly, not even bothering to take his eyes off me. He’s got that _stare_ , you know? The powerful gaze of a snake hypnotising his prey… and it’s working, too. I can’t seem to take my eyes off him, as if I will lose something… something important if I do.

“And the harder it got for Potter, the luckier I felt to have dodged the bullet,” he tilts his head lightly, as if something in those memories is still slightly uncomfortable to him. “With every passing day, every deadly adventure of yours, I knew I couldn’t have done what you did for him. I couldn’t have sacrificed everything, least of all myself, to help another person, not the way you did. Potter’s destiny was always going to be grand, no matter what, but you…”

He shakes his head as if he still couldn’t quite come to terms with what he’s about to say, but his words come anyway:

“I knew I could never be you, standing bravely by his side no matter what – not then, not ever… and it slowly made me realise how lucky Potter was to have you. Until one day I realised I admired you more than I admired him.”

Those words just slip out so casually, like a string of priceless pearls just rolled out of the serpent’s mouth and landed soundlessly on the dark, velvet fabric of truth stretched between us. But their impact is instant. Somehow, the distance between us seems to shrink, and the room suddenly feels very small, almost intimate. He can feel it, too. His breath hitches, making those soft lips flutter apart, and a small, silver flash lights up behind the huge, dark pupils of his eyes. His nostrils flare, and his breathing seems to become faster. His words come faster, too, as if he can’t wait to finally pour out every unspoken word still filling what little room there is left between us.

“I lied to myself for as long as I possibly could – but every night when I was alone with my dreams, the unwanted truth floated to the surface: I was so, so very jealous of Potter. Because he had you… and I couldn’t.”

I think at this point I’m no longer breathing, just waiting for all that unbearable, insane tension between us to crack, so I could exhale again.

“And I wanted to. So very much.”

I’m not so sure which one of us does it… which one of us reaches out for the other first but I remember hearing the chessboard rattling to the floor and the angry Kneazle hissing… And now there is only his hot, eager sweet mouth on mine, and it feels as if I’m finally able to quench the thirst I didn’t even know I had. I can’t get enough of him, Christ… I can’t. He climbed into my lap the second our lips connected, and now he’s melted against me in all his perfect, half-naked glory, and my hands are roaming all over him as if he was indeed mine for the taking.

“Ronald, you absolute beast,” he moans into my mouth. “Why did you make me wait, you mean, redheaded bastard? You know I nearly humped you in your sleep… and again in the kitchen… and then that ex-wench of yours showed up… I thought I was never going to get any again! And I need it… so very much… you made me need it… need you…”

“Draco, you mad fuck…” I groan because he’s already rubbing his gorgeous arse against the angry bulge in my trousers, and I once again can’t think of much else than _“fuck… more of that arse… now”_ – not necessarily in that order. “How was I supposed to know, you cheeky blond bastard?! And what exactly was that _‘just this once’_ business all about, then?!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he breathes between a string of delicious, needy whimpers when my lips launch an enthusiastic attack at his neck again, and it’s obvious I don’t really care for the answer. “It was more like ‘just this once more’, I suppose… Or perhaps ‘just this one week’, whatever little is left of it, so… Merlin, Ron… please…”

I look at him, pressed against me like he has no need for any room between us, with that elegant, vulnerable neck arched in front of me like a priceless offering, the blond hair, still too long, spilling down his back, and my name slipping from that pretty, decadent mouth – and he’s the goddamn most beautiful sight I’ll ever see.

Am I willing to sell my soul for a few days of bliss with him? Oh, hell, yeah… Even if it leaves me with an ache that I’ll have to live with? Oh, yes. A thousand times yes. It feels like I don’t even have a choice. As if I was somehow destined to find myself on a tiny worn-out couch with Draco Malfoy, living out my every dream. The present is quite mad enough; I shouldn’t think about the future. Don’t think about the future, Ron…

“Yeah… all right,” I whisper in his ear, before I kiss it and give it that little bite he loves so much. “I’m quite ready to dazzle you, Mr. Malfoy.”

He gives his signature little mewl and seals my mouth with a sloppy, dirty kiss that makes me forget my own name. I knew it from the start that this time it was going to be different than our first time… or our second time for that matter. It is somehow less desperate, as if those few days we’ve allowed ourselves to indulge in this delusional dream of _us_ gave us the luxury of time, and we take it slow, more gently… and we’re _definitely_ more thorough. Oh yeah… My lovely blond prince is full of talents I didn’t know about.

He knows how to turn me on with deep, scorching, breathtaking kisses; the filthy, hidden, fantasies he whispers in my ear when he works my cock drive me fucking wild with the need to make them all come true. Those narrow, beautiful hands make sex into a decadent form of art, and he’s got that fucking… shameless… talented mouth that a god of debauchery would be proud of, and he lets me fuck it all I want, until I’m so very close to the edge I’m almost spilling.

When he’s finally ready to take me in, I can barely hold myself back enough not to hurt him. What we had last time, was a savage, desperate fuck of two people who only have a few precious moments to put in all their passion for each other, but what we have now is way more dangerous. It comes so close to making love, I can’t tell the fucking difference. He’s looking straight into my eyes when he’s riding my cock, every little sigh, every obscenity, every whisper of my name – it’s all for me, and I never felt so very worshipped in my life. I want to come so badly, I’m almost seeing black, but I don’t want to give in; not just yet. I want to see him fall apart first because Draco Malfoy, all ruined, desperate, and beautiful is a sight for gods. A sight I need to remember. For life. At least I’ll have that if I can’t have anything else. 

He’s nearly there, and he’s gorgeous enough to take my breath away. Too bloody gorgeous for words. I love the way he clings to me, the way he fucks himself on my cock with his eyes half closed, as if he’s living out his every fantasy. And I love the way he arches his back and crushes down onto my lips for one last kiss, when he’s so near I can already see the bliss on his face.

_“… love you…”_

Perhaps it’s only my hopeless longing to hear the words, but whatever invisible string held me back from coming, just snapped with a vengeance. He pushes his hungry, needy arse down onto my cock and cries out as I thrust my shaft into him with that force that only takes over me when I need to be one with him. And even when I’m buried inside of him as deep as I’ll ever be and falling apart under the warm, heavy blanket of his body, I still pretend I can hear those few blessed words whispered again and again into my mouth. Bear with me and my stupid, deluded heart, we’ll never have something like this again.


	12. Chapter 12

I don’t have the courage to tell him the truth yet. I’m afraid to confide in him with my feeble plans for the future; I’m terrified of telling him how bloody much it means to me to have him near, I don’t want to spill out my heart to him, not just yet, because it’s too full with the hopes and dreams for us, and I’m afraid to jinx it. It’s still too early and it may all come to nothing in a few days, if the things don’t go well at my mother’s trial.

Right now, I’m more scared of hope than of anything else. I’d love to keep him. I’d love to stay in this cosy shoebox of a flat, where I can be as free as I’m ever going to be. If I could have it my way, I’d never leave. But life refuses to stand still. The bastard always pulls us places, up and down, and sometimes back to the beginning – and wearing people down, shredding the most carefully laid out plans… and sometimes, pulling people who were meant to be apart. Yeah, that as well.

That’s why I’m keeping my shy hopes and grand plans to myself, and refuse to live outside of the here-and-now. That’s why I’m so reluctant to share with him the frightening little secret that threatens to tear my heart apart: I refuse to give him up as well.

I only hope the gods are listening.

~

“Bloody hell, hang on in there, I’m coming! Seriously, knock it off, you… you two. You’ll break the bloody window!”

Oh no… What, already?!

I’m staring at the two gigantic owls, marked with the Ministry insignia and looking properly overworked, hostile and grumpy. They’re perched on the windowsill with a large package stuck between them, and I know perfectly well what’s inside. It makes my heart sink. Not the content, no, but the fact that it’s here already.

Madam Malkin dropped by yesterday morning, complained copiously about being all but kidnapped on the busiest day of the year, measured Draco up and down, and berated him about how very skinny he had become – _“Honestly, Mr. Malfoy, what prompted you to lose that much weight?! I dare say you had one of the finest forms I was privileged to dress, and while the proportions are still there, there’s hardly enough left of you to put my hand around!”_

Merlin, what a tiresome chatterbox of a woman! Don’t get me wrong, I… I don’t have anything against her, not really, but her visit served as an unpleasant reminder that the few days we still had to ourselves were melting away quickly, and soon, it was only going to be hours, and not days, before… Christ. Before everything fell apart.

And now it is all happening too fast for me to process. We were just enjoying our well-deserved afternoon rest after a rather athletic fuck that left us both boneless and unable to move, when the rap on the window came. And now I’m looking at the menacing birds with a sinking heart, having crazy brain-farts if perhaps I could send them back and hide the goods – or if, perhaps, I could interest two Kneazles in a fresh meal…

“What was the commotion all about?”

My gorgeous blond god approaches me from behind and wraps his arms around my waist, leaning his head onto my back as if he needed a little more rest. And the moment passes. I can’t turn the birds away any more than I can stop the trial from happening. So, I stifle a sigh and throw the cranky owls a treat before dragging the package inside and closing the window.

“I believe, this is yours,” I tell him, and I can tell from his childlike excitement that the truth hasn’t quite caught up with him yet.

The package has obviously been screened by the Ministry. When we open it, a nifty charm makes the word “safe” appear before it disintegrates into the thin air, but the content looks undisturbed, and to me, the whole screening business smells a lot of one of Hermione’s clever spells.

“Oh, good Lord…” my lovely, posh blondie says, sounding positively enchanted at the sight of beautiful robes that begin to unpack themselves quickly. There are formal robes in package, as well as beautifully-tailored shirts, pristine and starched to perfection. I don’t know much about trousers and such, but those that come with the robes even look expensive, and the fabric of the long, regal-looking cloaks is as soft as a Kneazle’s fur.

There are three sets of everything in there in grey, blue and black. While he’s admiring his new treasure like a child on the Christmas morning, I manage to remove another thing that came with the package. It’s not for his eyes to see, not yet, and I manage to conceal it quickly while he’s distracted with the clothes. I don’t even have to try hard. I’ve never seen any man so engrossed in a pile of clothes, honestly. His face positively glows in delight. But really, it’s no wonder.

Madam Malkin might be a cranky, chatty old toad – but there’s isn’t a single person around who can match her skills. The robes and everything that came with them are things of timeless beauty. So I have him try every piece of garment on for me, and they’re a perfect fit, too. So much so, that I have to rush for an emergency wank after that improvised fashion show because there’s only so many times I can see Draco Malfoy’s pert arse undressed and not come in my pants. I would love to fuck him in each and every piece of the stylish robes – but I’ve got a very unfortunate habit of wrecking every bit of clothing I touch, and I’ve already wasted every last Knut of my war-time compensation paying for this batch. It would be entirely counter-productive to ruin it because I couldn’t afford new ones. I’ll be eating at Mum’s for a while from now on as it is – and living from paycheck to paycheck for a few months to come – but for me, it’s totally worth it.

But once the clothes are carefully stored in the closet, the rush of delight fades quickly, and a sombre, melancholic air truly begins to settle over us. He makes us dinner – something he got remarkably good at with the help of my mother’s recipe book – and then he takes my hand and quietly leads me to the tiny, worn-out couch in my living room. That couch has recently turned into my favourite piece of furniture. We’ve made countless unforgettable memories there, left deep marks and dents of our bodies in it, and for me it would always carry a wisp of his scent that seemed ingrained into the very essence of the thin fabric. I know I’ll take that humble little couch with me wherever life takes me.

But after turning on the wireless, which he came into a habit of doing, he doesn’t put his head on my shoulder or in my lap like he usually does. Instead, he drags my old chess-set to the table, and asks me with a lovely tilt of his head: “Play with me? We never managed to finish the last one.”

Well, fuck it, we might as well. I’m not really in the mood for a game of chess, but I humour him anyway – what else am I supposed to do? Perhaps he has grown tired of the intimacy between us? Or he’s merely trying to get used to no longer spending his evenings with me, wisely putting a distance between us – which is something I don’t have the heart to do. Having been delivered the robes that he’s only ever going to wear out there, in the world far removed from our private little universe, was indeed a sobering moment. But my heart still squeezes in my chest bitterly, and I have to try hard not to show that I’m in a bad spot.

“So, what are we playing for?” I remember our first take at playing chess that went down an entirely different route anyone could have imagined.

He looks at me with those bright, grey eyes, and shrugs with a small smile:

“Do you want to play for something?” 

_For you,_ I want to tell him. _I want to play for you, so I could keep you._ I’d put everything I know and everything I am into a game like that. But, of course, I don’t say that. He no longer seems to want to be near me, so I can’t be quite so pathetic.

“Nah,” I tell him instead. “It doesn’t really matter. But I thought… since this was once your idea…”

“My _final_ idea was the consolation prizes,” he points out. “And that’s what I’m sticking to. Have you thought of something you want already?”

Yeah, you can imagine down which way that goes…

“I don’t have one right now,” I mumble. “I wasn’t expecting us to play chess, to be honest. But since we’re at it – I reserve the right to pick one if I think of it. You?”

“Oh, yes,” he says matter-of-factly. “I most definitely do. If I lose, you’ll give me a haircut.”

Huh? Once again, I have a decisive feeling that I lost the plot entirely...

But then his eyes are on me – the big, bright pools of pure silver – and it finally dawns on me what happened the very first time I attempted to groom him. What is he trying to do? There’s no need to seduce me this time; I’m already his, body and soul. He only needs to ask, give me a sign, show me…

But let’s face it – I’m rather daft when it comes to the affairs of the heart, and I’m far from sure that I got it right this time around. Perhaps his motivation is radically different. Perhaps, he just really wants to beat me at chess?

It’s never a good thing to let my mind to run in circles like that, I could end up accidentally hurting something – like, my heart – so I just give up, and nod with a lump in my throat. And then I just _know_ something was up indeedwhen I see him flash a smile like I just handed him a victory he wasn’t certain he could secure.

“So, which…”

“White, as always,” he replies before I manage to finish the question.

“Right,” I mumble. “It’s only natural.”

Again that sweet, barely visible smile that softens his features so. Merlin, I’m going to miss that smile…

“Your move,” I tell him because in Wizard’s Chess, White actually refers to the player who makes the first move. His long elegant fingers close around the throat of the white King and for some reason, my heart starts to beat madly. That… he can’t start any move like that, and he knows it. All the chattering magical chess pieces instantly go quiet, as if they can sense something is wrong.

“Do you know what the colour white also stands for?” he asks me with an undertow of tension in his voice. He never takes his hypnotising silver eyes off me, not even for a single moment. I swallow. I’ve been through war, of course I know.

“Surrender,” he quietly lays it out for me anyway – and tips over his King. The pandemonium of indignant calls instantly erupts from his chess pieces, but he pays it no notice.

“There, I surrender. I’ve lost. And I’ll have my consolation prize now… please.”

It suddenly all makes sense. This was never about winning. It wasn’t even about playing. He couldn’t make sure he would win – but he could make sure he would lose.

“Come. Time to get rid of those,” he tugs at his long locks, “and make me neat and respectable once again.”

He offers me his hand and I take it.

“I happen to like your hair long,” I blurt out. “It’s really soft, and I… I like it.” I can’t, for the love of God, spell out how much I’m going to miss sinking my fingers into his hair when we’re together – and no, I’m not just talking about sex… and yes, I’m also talking about sex.

I love digging my fingers into the alluring blond mane when I’m pounding into him until he’s begging and coming all over himself. It puts me on top of the world when I do that. And when I let my fingers sift through the silken sea of softness after we’re done fucking each other empty of all the ache and unspoken feelings – this is how I give him every bit of tenderness I have no other way of showing. It makes him purr with delight… and Merlin, yes, I’m going to miss those small moments. If you look carefully, they shed light onto one big monster-love hiding in my heart. 

“You like a lot of things about me no one else does,” he smirks, but it’s not without a hint of sadness. “I’m going to miss this… being liked by you.”

That’s all the confession I’m going to get, and, as shy as it is, it still makes my heart flutter.

And here we are again, in my tiny bright bathroom, with blinding shower-curtains and the mirror that is much to blame for what is going on between us. He takes his shirt off this time without me having to ask. And this time we look different in the mirror than we did when it all started. Something about our pose has changed, we’re standing closer, our personal space melted into each other, and we look somehow… established. Like we’re a real couple. Like there’s real love. God, this is going to hurt.

“A week later – and you’re still staring,” he teases me gently, and this time I respond with planting a soft kiss in the crook of his neck. I love watching myself do that, I love seeing the look of shock and bliss take place on his face within a single moment. If this thing between us was headed anywhere, my first paycheck would probably go towards investing in a giant mirror just above our bed… yeah, a man can dream. At least let me have that.

“I can use my wand or…” I can see the smile light up those fine features at my feeble attempt at replaying the scene from a week ago.

“I’m supposed to say ‘a razor’ but I can’t, thanks for that, you cheeky bastard,” he complains, but there’s a bittersweet smile in the corner of his mouth, and I can see this is not easy for him. I know him well enough by now.

“Well – there’s always an… interesting alternative.”

I reach out for the Muggle battery shaver Harry left behind, and I see his eyes go wide.

“Not the Muggle contraption, surely!”

“Yeah, perhaps you’re right. It’s rather loud, and it vibrates funnily – but it does the job really well, especially if you want your hair as short as it used to be bef-”

I feel him go tense under my hand and I bite my tongue in the last moment. I nearly blurted out “before the war”, and I really don’t want to bring the war into this. I don’t want to remind him that there was once a world, not so far removed, in which we were on opposite sides and such stolen moments of intimacy between us would seem impossible.

“… back in school,” I finish the sentence instead, and I can feel his shoulders relax against my chest.

“All right,” he agrees unexpectedly. All right – what?

“You can use the Muggle contraption, I suppose,” he sighs quietly.

What – really?!

“I trust you,” he says simply, and my heart does that stupid melting thing it always does when he hands me an unexpected token of his affection.

“But perhaps you should get rid of your ghastly shirt as well,” he suggests flippantly. “A little bird once told me that those things get full of hair – and that your cleaning charms are kind of shit.”

The cheeky bastard! But he’s the cheeky bastard that I love, so I just grunt unhappily, and I humour him once more. At least that finally makes him go quiet. I reckon he has a thing for the phoenix tattoo I have on my chest. He loves running his fingers across it, and he often puts his head right on top of it at the centre of my chest.

“I want one of those one day,” he blurts out, leaning back onto my chest and closing his eyes, as if he needs to draw strength from the magical bird. “They’re a symbol of rebirth and resurrection, as you probably know. I suppose I have to earn one first.”

You know, he was in a miserable state when I’ve found him, but Draco Malfoy just isn’t the type of a person one feels sorry for. I didn’t, not really. Not until now. I never really recognised how much he needed to reinvent himself, how much he was willing to do to be a new man – and how much he depended on the world out there to accept the man he wanted to become, and forgive the spoiled and frightened boy he once was. He carried guilt – plenty of it, I could tell from his nightmares – he carried responsibility of the last descendant of two grand wizarding families, and he had almost no one on his side to give him half a chance to succeed. It was Draco Malfoy against the world, and he could as well lose.

Maybe I shouldn’t think too much. That thought just made me miserable. So I kiss his neck again and run my fingers through the soft blond hair while I still can. He makes the sweetest little sound, something between a whimper and a sigh, and whispers softly:

“You always know how to make it better.”

I wish he didn’t need to go. I wish there was no stupid trial and he could stay and we would be a… thing. An item. A couple. Maybe. At least I wish I didn’t have to get rid of his hair, I do love running my fingers through it so. And I only have the courage to say one of those things out loud.

“I wish you didn’t make me do this… cut your hair. It just makes you so… you,” I mumble miserably, but it’s not about the bloody hair, it’s about not letting him go, about not letting any part of him go.

“But you won’t be around to play with it soon, will you?” he says quietly. “And I don’t want it if you’re not around. It would remind me of you… and this… every time I’d as much as look at myself. And I don’t think I’m up to remembering things I’ve lost, things I can’t have, not much. I can’t look back, babe. It would run me to the grave.”

I understand now. I do. I’m his weakness and he needs to be strong. The timing is just lousy for us. But I refuse to give up hope. I still have time to give him a thing or two to remember me by, like it or not.

So I tighten the grip on his blond locks, making him open his eyes in shock, and I kiss the shell of his ear before I ask:

“Ready?”

“Oh yeah…” he breathes. “For you… always.”

He tilts his head forward, pressing it down onto his chest, and that perfect and perfectly vulnerable curve of his neck and shoulders makes my mouth water. He’s a perfect image of submission, and the very sight of him makes my cock hard.

“Stand still,” I warn him. “This won’t hurt if you don’t move.”

But he just can’t seem to stop squirming.

Perhaps it’s because I know how to handle him now. I know that running my fingers through his hair is his thing, something that turns him on almost involuntarily. I know that pulling on it to the very edge of pain inevitably makes him melt into a puddle.

Perhaps it’s because my breathing turned kind of heavy behind him, and I can see the goosebumps on his skin where my breath caresses it. I blow the excess hair off his skin on purpose from time to time, and he never fails to whisper a breathless curse, almost as if he has no idea it’s coming and he’s been caught off guard about how much he likes it.

Perhaps it’s because I just can’t resist the pull he has on me, and I randomly press a sloppy kiss in the crook of his neck… just under his ear… or at the centre of that elegant neck, just to take the worst edge of my need off. He’s so beautiful when he’s all mine, at my disposal. I can’t get enough of him. I have to keep reminding myself that he asked for this, that we’re here, playing this game of seduction, because he asked for it. But it’s impossible to miss how much he enjoys it.

Every time I tilt his head left or right or wherever it needs to be, he mewls a little, like he can’t help being turned on by my manhandling. I don’t have to touch him to know that he’s hopelessly hard, and even if he was blind and stupid he couldn’t hope to miss my solid shaft, rubbing against his gorgeous bum ever since we’ve started this little exercise in self-restraint.

“Almost done,” I tell him through gritted teeth, when he presses his delectable arse against the bulge in my trousers and shamelessly rolls his hips in a way that it makes me want to bury my swollen cock in his arse to the hilt and never fucking come out.

“Christ… You better fucking hope so,” he breathes, and it comes out as one word, followed by a sweet, helpless whimper when I slowly lick up the sensitive column of his spine… across the exposed neck… all the way to the hairline. “Ron…”

“There,” I tell him. “All done.”

He leans his head on my shoulder, as if he’s not quite certain he can stand on his own, and I wrap my arm around his waist, pressing him as close as I can. Then I finally allow myself to revel in the rush of pure, simmering lust scorching my body from inside when there’s finally no air between us. We might as well be one. God, I need to tone this down, or I’ll hurt him. His eyes are still closed, as if he’s trying to keep himself together somehow, and he doesn’t seem to care about his haircut.

I drag my hands down the round globes of that magnificent arse, and he moans deeply, like he needs it but he’s too much at loss for words to ask for it.

“Take me…” _Ohholycrap_ … He doesn’t need to ask me twice.

Harry’s old jogging bottoms come off without a fight, and that pert, perfect arse is finally exposed in front of me in all its naked glory. I barely manage that fucking charm with the magic liquid that makes this so much more enjoyable, when he swats at my hand and makes me spill it all. _The fuck?_

“Take me... Take me now. Like this. Like this will do. I’m fine… from the last time we did it. And I don’t want it nice anyway; I don’t want it pain-free… I don’t want anything between us. I want it like only you can give it to me. I want to feel you. Every inch of you. For days and days and days, Ron. Now, goddammit, now… _ohChistMerlinyessss_!”

I just bent him over roughly, and I entered him. You couldn’t stop me if you tried. He’s so tight around me I’m seeing black, but then he gives another one of those undoing, aching moans like I’ve just made every dream he had true, and I begin to fuck him like it’s a fucking contest because that’s what he wants. He keeps begging me – _“Harder… don’t stop… fuck me raw… that’s right… there… ohGodfuck, there…_ – so I do it. I’m going to do every last thing he asks of me.

He’s holding on to the edge of the washbasin for dear life, and I pound into him like there’s no tomorrow… because there isn’t one, not for us, and I can’t let him forget. When his breathless train of cursing tells me he’s close, I wrap my hand around his swollen, purple cock, and watch him in the mirror fuck himself between my cock and my hand – until his eyes find mine. I only last about three seconds after that. That expression on his face, a perfect blend of pain and bliss, pierces me straight through the heart. I can’t hold back all this hurt and love any longer.

“Draco!! God… fuck this love…”

He comes all over himself. And he’s beautiful. His body is arched backwards like a bow, pressed tightly against me, his lips parted in a soundless yelp, still mindlessly repeating my name like a curse and a prayer, and his silver eyes lost somewhere in the universe of all things and nothings. Yeah, he’s beautiful. I feel almost selfish wanting to keep all this beauty for myself, and no one else.

He’s slowly coming down from his high, and his arm slips behind my neck lazily to hold my head pressed into the crook of his neck. I kiss it lightly, once, twice, lots of times, up and down his neck and the side of his face, because I can’t bloody stop. I find him irresistible. He could as much as look at me, and I’d get a hard-on. It’s the way things are between us now.

“Why did you do it?” I kiss his temple, and then rest my chin on his shoulder. “Why the silly chess game? You could have just dragged me to bed, I would have raced you there.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but then he gives a little sigh as if he was afraid that I was going to ask this very question.

“There’s such a thing as making a statement, Ronald,” he tells me quietly. “And I wanted you to know that I surrender… to you. I would have asked for the same thing if I could hope to win the game: for a chance to pay you my respect, and show you my admiration. You know as well as I do that there are too many things I can't speak of right now. There are words which I may never be in a position to say outside of this precious little haven of ours, no matter how much I want to – but I want you to know that I will always cherish every little thing you’ve done for me, every lovely memory you’ve helped me make, every moment I’ve spent in your arms.”

He turns around in my arms and looks me in the eye with those lit-up silver ponds.

“I bow my head to you, Ron,” he says softly. “To your kindness, to your generous heart, to your dedicated, loving care. To the way you smile because it lights up the room, my day and my heart, to the way you knock me down a peg or two when you think I could use it – and lift me up to the stars when I can’t pick myself up. I bow my head to the love you keep giving me, without asking for anything in return. I don’t have much to give at this moment – and perhaps I never will – but this is yours: you’re my equal in every way and so high above me in many ways that it would be my privilege to one day call you my own. Perhaps it is in our stars…”

I kiss the rest of his words and his unspoken, heartbreaking feelings off his lips because I might be bawling a little, and I don’t want him to see it. Our kiss is as desperate and dirty and sloppy and all those other things that make it perfect, because it’s impossible to kiss neatly when you’re both crying. And we get as hopelessly lost in it as the first time, and the second, and all those other times. Our love bleeds into them. When we kiss, I feel as if we were meant to be.

Oh, fuck this life. I pick him up in my arms and carry him to our bed. I have a few more hours with him, and I’m going to make the best of them. Gods, you bastards, I hope you’re watching. You _made_ this. Us. Don’t fuck it up. _Please._


	13. Chapter 13

“So, which one?”

I still can’t believe we’re here: I’m holding the gorgeous handmade robes in my hands, and I actually want the opinion of one Ronald Weasley on which to wear. How is this not crazy? He practically wore the fur of a moth-eaten, centuries-dead troll to the Yule ball!

But I want his opinion on everything these days, don’t I? I seek his company like a young Krup, hopelessly smitten with its caring master. I bloody follow him everywhere. To the bathroom, to the kitchen, to the bedroom… It’s like I have this fear of losing him if I blink… and today this fear will become a reality.

Because today is the day. It’s the day of my mother’s trial, and really, I should have other things on my mind. Serious things. What to do if Ronald is right and my mother walks free after the trial is done? There would be a million things to sort out, future to plan, and – sooner or later – also matters considering continuing the family line… Merlin, I _so_ don’t want to go there!

And then there’s another, even more troubling option: What if my mother’s testimony isn’t sufficient grounds for acquittal? Even if Potter plans to testify on her behalf – and that undoubtedly carries weight – it is not Potter calling the shots. It is the wizards and witches of the Wizengamot, and this could go either way. Perhaps they might not be inclined to virtually annihilate one of the grandest families of the wizarding world – because that’s what would happen if my mother was thrown in jail and I was to remain destitute. But perhaps they would be eager to distance themselves from the proven crimes of the family who hosted Vol…The Dark Lord through the brunt of his efforts to tear the wizarding community apart and submit it to his reign.

I _know_ all that. And I should be concerned about it. I should be getting ready. I should be planning for either option. Only I’m not. I’m strangely numb, almost as if the apathy that washed over me while I was homeless, somehow came back with a vengeance. My mind is not really concerned with any of that as if I didn’t manage to properly process that I was either going to have my life back in a few hours or lose my future entirely. My mind isn’t even there. It keeps travelling around like a confused drunk who keeps coming to the same old poison, to the one thing he cares about: I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave him. Ronald. My Ron. I don’t want to leave him.

Focus, Draco, goddammit, focus, you sorry loser! But I just… can’t.

He’s standing in front of me already, thoughtfully contemplating the sets of beautiful robes that must have cost a fortune – a fortune he would not speak of – and I know he doesn’t care either way. But he _does_ care about how I feel, what I like, and what’s best for me. So he takes his task of choosing me the best robes seriously. I can tell by the wrinkle between his strong eyebrows, and by the way his blue eyes flicker all over it, contemplating a million different options, just the way he does when he’s focused on a game of chess. He’s right here – and I already miss him; how is that even possible?

I’ll miss everything about him. I’ve committed every adorable detail to my memory. The way his blue eyes flare to life when he’s angry, excited, or even – God help me – turned on. The way that pretty, warm mouth stretches into a cheeky smile that lights up the room. Those adorable freckles! Merlin, the freckles! He’s got galaxies of them! Tiny golden specks stretch across the bridge of his nose and all the way down to the top of his lips like little universes, and I want to collect each and every one of them with my tongue, as if I could hope to catch a bit of precious gold for the keeping. I’d love to keep him… There should be a sweet, hidden little spot on that magnificent body, clearly marked with _“Property of Draco Malfoy, keep your hands off!”_

Hands… yeah, those big, warm, possessive hands of his. I’m going to miss the way they take over my body and roam over it as if he owns it. He does; more than he’s aware of. I’ll miss the sight of fiery locks spilled across the pillow when he sleeps, the booming laughter… and that fucking majestic cock; let’s not forget that! I could write a book of cock poetry after being owned by that beast! Nothing ever makes me fall apart the way his cock does. Except, perhaps, the way he kisses. That’s just… magic. Something happens when we kiss. It’s like fireworks go off in my head and all other lights go out. It’s frighteningly overwhelming.

“Blue, I think,” he says thoughtfully, as if he’s not entirely certain of his judgement. “Normally, I’d probably say grey, but you’re not fully restored to your health yet and the grey might bring that unfortunate pallor forward.”

“Good call, Mr. Weasley, I believe you’ve got an eye for that,” I smile at him because I want to see his eyes light up and because he’s right – I’m still quite too pale to look good in grey. But seeing how much thought he put into it, I’d wear a bloody garbage bag if he told me to at this point. And I have a good excuse to steal a kiss from him now. Just a small, innocent one. Just because I can’t stop touching him.

“Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back. I still need you,” I tell him before I disappear into the bathroom. I close the door behind me and lean on it heavily. How on earth am I going to do this? Leave him behind? I put the pristine, beautifully-crafted shirt on. And I leave the buttons undone.

~

I wonder if he’s half as bummed out as I am. If he is, he doesn’t show it. He’s all focus and buzzing around with nervous air of someone facing an important day. But it’s different for him. At the end of this trial, he will either win everything or lose it all. And for me – there’s no win for me in it either way. No wonder I’ve been feeling all but destroyed since Dad’s ancient alarm clock went off in the morning. I didn’t feel like getting up, not at all, like I was facing some unknown horror.

But I did it in the end anyway, because there was no way around it. Hermione would have dragged me out by my hair if I didn’t show up. And I need to escort him to the trial; I need to protect him. So that thought got me out of the bed in the end. But I feel… off, as if I was somehow put together slightly wrong, and nothing in this day quite fits.

He got up before I did, the way he always does. He made us breakfast, too, like it was just an ordinary day. But it wasn’t. We ate in silence, and it was the heavy, sad sort, not the nice, companionable one. He’d already showered, I could tell because even across the table his skin smelled sweetly. I wanted to reach across the table and pull him closer, I wanted to kiss that sweetness off his skin, and I wanted to tell him how much I was going to miss him. But I did none of those things. This day is about goodbye, and I guess there’s only so many times you can have one. We made love last night, and not just once, but I woke up alone in the morning – and that, as he would put it, was a statement. I guess I got as much of a goodbye as I was going to get.

But I can’t just stay away. I jump at every little token of his attention. Like just a moment ago, when he asked my opinion on which robes to pick. I’m dumb enough to actually get all warm and fuzzy on the inside, like it was the greatest statement of affection ever uttered. But I still fell down the well completely – and I reckon I could have written two-feet-worth of an essay about which colour suited him the best. Oh, I suppose I really want him to look good. Perhaps then I can tell myself that this was all worth it: I helped Draco Malfoy become flawlessly dashing again, and brought him a little closer to that new man he wants to become.

And then he told me he still needed me, so I’m still hanging around like the fool that I’ve become. That’s one feeling I’m certainly accustomed to. I never was smart enough to know what was good for me. I probably wouldn’t hang around Harry for two minutes if I did – and I would have rushed away from Malfoy as if there was a Hungarian Horntail chasing behind me. But you know, seeking Harry’s friendship turned out to be one of the highlights of my sorry life – and perhaps this is why this stubborn, shy, idiot hope that everything will turn out all right in the end just won’t go quietly into the dark. But at least he’s worth the heartbreak waiting for me at the end of this ordeal. Totally worth it. I just have to close my eyes and think of that smile, remember the way he tilts his head and says…

“I need a bit of help with the buttons, I suppose.”

How is the voice in my head so loud and clear? Perhaps… because it’s not just in my head? I open my eyes, and there he stands, casually leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, and looking just as effortlessly gorgeous as if he just stepped out of my wettest dream. A strip of pale skin looks radiant against the fabric of his shirt, only darker by a shade or so, and my breath hitches almost as if I have no control of it. I’m at half-mast only by looking at him. The memories and all the endless open possibilities make my head spin.

“Will you…?” He moves closer so smoothly, as if he’s walking on air, and I can’t take my eyes off him, as if he was a heavenly apparition sent to ease the tightness around my heart. I barely manage to nod. The world just went kind of dizzy and my vision seems to have narrowed on that tempting pale skin calling my name. He reaches me and my back is literally against the wall, when he stops. There are barely inches of space between us, and they’re filled with so many unspoken words, so much quiet, savage yearning and hope – always that damn hope – that I swear I can see it crackle. My hands reach across the gap and they slide down the sides of the smooth fabric I paid a fortune for but was just a worthless frame of something priceless. He inhales sharply when the tips of my fingers brush across the velvet, pearly skin casually, and I never hear him exhale.

My fingers finally locate the buttons and begin to work, but I’m afraid to look at him – and that’s all right, because I don’t really have to. I know perfectly well how he looks. His lips are parted because I can feel his hot breath caressing my skin, I can feel his eyes on me as if they were fingers, following every freckle, every line on my face, lingering on my mouth as if they had lost all strength to move away, and his nipples are as tight as pebbles under the silken shirt. I know what that means, I know his body well enough. I guess he couldn’t leave without a goodbye after all.

And once again I stop before doing the very last button under that gorgeous, tempting, elegant neck still bearing the marks of my ownership. My fingers refuse to cooperate, trembling too much to do any good, and in a sudden mad rush of desperate bravery I splay my hands open on his chest. And I look at him. Lost and confused and all but begging not to make me do this anymore… or let me do it all the way. I meet his eyes, and I nearly drown in the bottomless pools of pure silver, pulling me in like a vortex. A silent _please_ , is on my lips and drumming madly in my heart. _Please, please, please._ I can’t distinguish it from my heartbeat. 

“Is there something you want?” he whispers, and I… I just nod. My eyes swim down to those pretty, decadently soft lips, as if I’m waiting for them to give me a permit. Please God… he has to. I know he feels the same desperate need, too. It’s in his eyes, in the way he invited me into his personal space, so deep, there’s barely a breath between us. It’s in his shallow, shaky breaths as if he’s as scared as I am of this inexplicable magic we have, this raw pull we can’t control or resist. So, I wait with my hands pressed onto his chest, his heart going a hundred miles a minute under them, and I can feel him fight it. I look at him once again, and I can see the very moment when he loses the battle.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispers again, those pretty lips trembling before opening like a pair of heavenly petals and breathing the word of surrender: “Ron…”

And I just eat it from his mouth. Devour it, this one, and another. I have no proper recollection of reaching out for those tempting, lush lips, but I must have because we’re at it like a pair of cursed demons, kissing, and licking, and fighting each other because this… this hurts. Our goodbye hurts. I take every breathless sigh of my name from his lips, as many as they come, hungrily, greedily, forcefully, because it’s mine and I may never hear it spoken that way again: with awe, wonder, need and lust, like I mean something, like I’m his everything. I want to fuck him so badly that my balls feel as if they’re made of lead, heavy and hot, drawn tightly under my hopelessly swollen cock. But I won’t. Because I want him to remember this, and come back for more.

It’s cheap and dirty and it may never work, but goddammit, that’s me, and how I made it through the fucking war. You know how the pagans used to sacrifice something when they asked the gods for a favour? Well, that’s me. Sacrificing my last chance of a proper goodbye for the one desperate plea in my heart: that this isn’t goodbye at all. This is all I’ve got. Hope. That shit’s going to kill me.


	14. Chapter 14

I swear that mad Weasley bastard is trying to kill me. You don’t just kiss someone’s bloody soul out like it’s yours for the taking, like they owe it to you, and then leave them breathless on the brink of coming, with a mere whisper: _“Come and find me when you’re ready to finish the job. I’m not saying goodbye. I’m not.”_

Look, I know it’s my fault. I just couldn’t bloody stay away, all right? I had to have one last taste of him – and boy, did I get it! It only took me, like, three seconds to come after he left me, and I spent those three seconds frantically undoing the buttons on my trousers not to ruin them beyond repair. Merlin, how does he make me come all over myself with a mere kiss?! Oh, blast… I guess it’s going to be the grey robes after all. This thing… oh my God. Well, crap, it’s ruined until it’s had a proper cleaning.

But I’m shocked to realise that I feel better. Perhaps he didn’t quite give me what I practically begged him for – but he gave me something better. A tiny glimpse of hope he’s holding for us. That, and the unfinished business. This is going to bug me through the rest of my days unless I find a way to settle it. Sure, I want to murder the sexy, evil bastard right now, but goddammit, I’ll be back for more one day. I will. That’s how I roll.

I’m surprisingly focused when I finish dressing myself. He finally shows up from the bathroom, his eyes red as if he’s been crying, but composed, cool, with that tension to his square, broad shoulders that tells me he’s ready to take on the world. He takes one look at me, smiles at the sight of the grey robes, and mumbles softly:

“Perfect… almost.”

And then he casually draws my wand – my bloody wand!!! – from the holster at his side and presents it to me.

“And now you are.”

I look at him, stunned and utterly incredulous at this regal gift of trust, but he merely shrugs with a small smile and tells me:

“Compliments of Harry and Hermione. Mione thought it would do wonders for you confidence, and after I told them that you never once tried to _borrow_ mine, not once, Harry agreed that he could see no reason for you not to have it back since there have never been any charges laid down against you. You’ll have to apply for a special licence for use today from Wizengamot because the traces showed the use of Unforgivables – which you can’t ever use again, special measures have been taken against that. But, honestly, why would you want to? You’ve got your Kneazles; they can do more damage than any wand,” he shrugs, and I realise that this tiny, mischievous smile on a freckled face is worth a kingdom to me.

Right now, I’m… beyond moved. I can barely breathe. I know he had to ask them for the wand; I know this is entirely his doing. I want to kiss him so badly that my lips sting – but I won’t. Because I’ll be back for more than just a kiss one day… soon. I’ll be back for everything. Watch out, Ronald Weasley, and don’t you dare bloody move out of my sight. Because I’m Draco bloody Malfoy, a spoiled brat who always gets what he wants, and I just got my wand back. _There’s nothing I can’t do._

“I don’t know how…” I start in a shaky voice, but he just shakes his pretty head with determination, and I know that we’re not having this conversation.

“Don’t,” he says hastily. “There’s no need, really. It should never have been taken away. There was no grounds for such a rash, irresponsible decision. I… _we_ only fixed a clerical error that should never have happened. Also, your Kneazles… It was another blunder to just leave them there without care.”

“Take care of them,” I interrupt him because I just realise that I’ve got one hell of an excuse to come back. “Please take good care of them. I wouldn’t trust them to anyone but you. You have to keep them for me until…”

I can’t finish the sentence but he knows what I’m on about. He just swallows heavily and nods, and then he lifts his heaven-blue eyes to look me in the face:

“Always,” he says simply, and it feels… it feels as if I just got the greatest declaration of love of all times.

“Always,” I repeat in a whisper. As simple as that.

“Shall we?” he offers me his forearm with a resigned, forced smile, and I wrap my arm around it, ready for Apparition. I put my head on his shoulder as a rebellious last-minute statement of love. Because he’s mine, and this is how I roll.

~

It’s all over now. It took forever – over eighteen hours, to be exact because that incredible woman, Draco’s Mum, had a lot to say – but now it’s done. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m back to the flat all by myself, exhausted and wishing I had anywhere else to be. The place just echoes with my loneliness. But all the regular spots to grab a pint closed down hours ago – and I had to go back sometime, I suppose.

Two wet snouts press against each of my knee when I Apparate, and I’m staring at two furry faces that look surprisingly disappointed for a pair of Kneazles. I can relate. All alone, I make a depressing sight.

“You two must be starving,” I tell them, because talking to Kneazles is totally a thing when you’ve got no one else to talk to. But they don’t scratch me bloody the way they used to, they just hiss unhappily, as if they could care less about food.

“Yeah, I miss him, too,” I sigh, and I lead them to the kitchen. But they ignore the juicy, raw stakes I put in front of them. Wiz walks right past them and climbs up my leg with his front paws, as if begging for attention. At that point, I just give this whole damn evening up for a bad job, and I pick them up. It’s the kind of a night that one should not be alone, not even a pair of blood-thirsty Kneazles. They’re heavy, but warm, and soft, and they might even smell a little bit of him. I collapse on my beloved little couch with them, and one promptly climbs into my lap, while the other one wraps around the back of my neck as if he knew that I need as much comfort as I can get. I dig my fingers into the soft, ginger fur, close my eyes and exhale, as if I could get the whole weight of this bloody day off my chest.

“Miaow,” the bossy snow-white Kneazle complains over my silence, and the soft paw thumps me on the nose as if demanding answers.

“Right, the news. I forgot you understand _‘hooman’_. Well, you two will be happy to know that your master won big tonight. His mum, Lady Narcissa, did so well – she probably stopped a dozen lethal attacks with her testimony alone. Flocks of Aurors were sent off raiding as she spoke, imagine that! And then it was Harry’s turn – you know Harry, he comes here often. He did well, too. He told them everything, and then they let her go! You should have seen your master and his Mum hug it out!”

Wiz purrs in my lap as if he’s delighted over the news. Yeah, I’m happy for them, too.

“So, your master is getting everything back,” I scratch the orange monster behind the ear, making him purr some more.

“First and foremost, they’ve restored his family title – with that vile bastard of his father cemented in jail, he’s the official heir now, did you know? Oh, and they’ve granted him a special licence to use his wand, how great is that? And he got the house back! Remember the house? That big grand manor you’re used to with gardens and everything; not this sorry hole. And his Mum… he got her back, and obviously he was the happiest about that. He never looked back after that.”

Yeah, that part was hard to confess. He never looked back. And when I could no longer stand it, I left.


	15. Chapter 15

Merlin’s furry back, that was _intense_! I had no idea it was going to be such a drama, from front to back! First, we Apparated straight to the Wizengamot Grand Hall – apparently Potter had called out for special arrangements because that has never been done in the history of this noble institution. The security risk had to be immense for Minister Shacklebolt to allow something like that. Potter’s relief at the sight of us was obvious; poor sod looked as if he hadn’t slept in a month.

When we appeared, the ancient wizard presiding over the Wizengamot had to bang with the gavel rather fiercely for at least five minutes, on and off, until the ear-piercing squeals and excited chatter that erupted at our arrival settled enough to begin the procedure. I’m fairly certain that I saw some money change hands – it makes sense that there was betting going on whether I was going to show up or not. Some people certainly looked shocked out of their wits at the sight of me, and others appeared pleased enough to hug me. As if. I was never a person for the public gatherings much, and while living on the streets I had grown properly paranoid. At the sight of the endless sea of faces, many of them cold and unkind, I grabbed Ronald’s hand under the table, and if I had it my way, I would have held it throughout the trial.

I would have had a proper panic attack if it wasn’t for him. I would have. I could feel the tightness around my chest already, and the realisation of how much was at stake had finally caught up with me with a vengeance. But my Ron really knows how to handle me. His big warm hand closed around mine tightly, and he leaned down to whisper in my ear in a soothing voice.

“Relax, babe. If anyone as much as looks at you wrong they’ll have to deal with me. I won’t let anyone come near. I barely let Harry near! And just look at those Aurors, standing there with their wands at the ready at the slightest sign of misbehaviour! There must be over fifty of them! Not to mention that my brother Charlie is waiting outside with a bloody dragon in case anyone tries some unwarranted bollocks and attempts to do a runner! No one but us was allowed to Apparate within a five-mile radius of the Ministry. Hermione designed a special charm to test for Polyjuice. There’s no one in here that isn’t themselves. Oh, and Skeeter has been thrown in custody this morning, I was told. She tried to enter as a fly, but my brother George caught her in a jar of the puking pastilles. Apparently, they were expecting her to try and pull something like that after she was denied a request to be a part of select few who are to report from the trial. I guess what I’m trying to say is: no one’s safer than you, babe. No one – except perhaps your mother.”

And it worked like a charm. You see, it was not only what he said, it was _how_ he said it. It was his voice that calmed me down, and the fact that he never let go of my hand. And I know he wouldn’t have if it was up to him. But Granger approached us, as jittery and nervous as they come, and told me that my mother specifically requested for me to sit in the front row, near the compartment where she was kept in. So I had to go. I looked at him one last time, and I tried to put all of my feelings into that one last look: _“Please don’t go anywhere. Thank you. I’m head over heels in love with you. I hope you know. I’ll be back for you.”_

But I don’t know if any of it translated. 

I was never at any of the trials, so it was a shock to see Mother emerge in a proper cage, as if she was a common criminal. But my mother, as pale as the grave but every bit as majestic as in the best of her days, took it stone-faced as if none of the public humiliation could possibly leave any mark on her. However, at the sight of me, her lovely blue eyes lit up, and I… I was simply buried under a sudden rush of happiness.

“Mum!” I whispered before I could help it – and I don’t think I’ve called her that since I was eleven and Father forbade it _“because I was too grown up for such childish nonsense”._ But Father was in jail, never to come out, and that there was my mum, and… I haven’t seen her in ages and I hadn’t even said a proper goodbye when we parted, so yeah, “mum” it was, and fuck all. I could see she was struggling with emotions – though perhaps none of the other people present could – but when she spoke, her first words were not intended for me.

“I request permission to verify my son’s identity and receive a personal assurance of his well-being,” she turned her head regally towards the solemn old wizard presiding over the Wizengamot. Potter was there in a flash to whisper something in his ear, and the old man nodded:

“Very well, you’ve got five minutes, not a second longer.”

She thanked him with an elegant bow of her head, put her hands on the bar and looked me straight in the eye. If I was an impostor, I would be sweating all over the place now.

“What are you registered for breeding at home?”

I immediately knew what this was all about. My mother was above and beyond clever, so she devised her own personal test that a person, Polyjuiced into me, could not have answered.

“Kneazles,” I told her. “The Persian sort.” I immediately saw her features softened. We had an army of animals running around the Malfoy property, but not many people knew that I was an actual licensed breeder for Persian Kneazles in particular.

“And have you got any at the moment?”

“I’ve got a pair. Their names are Wiz and Lee,” – I paused here for theatrical effect and I couldn’t help smiling – “and, as someone wisely pointed out to me some time ago, they’re named after the love of my life.”

You see my mother had me figured out long ago before I was willing to go anywhere near my confusing feelings for Ron. After one of my endless and more colourful rants about the many flaws of one Ronald Weasley, she just burst out with her chime-like laughter and said something that nearly knocked me off my feet back then: _“You’re going to have to ask this young man’s hand in marriage, Draco. He certainly sounds like someone who would make your life very interesting! I dare say you talk as much about him as if he was the love of your life!”_

I knew she would know this to be the irrefutable proof, and I was not mistaken. Her lips trembled, and she quickly whispered:

“Draco, my dear boy! By Morgana’s wrath, what have they done to you?! You’ve gone so very thin and…”

“Mother, I’ve _never_ been better, trust me,” I told her quickly, unwilling to rattle her in any way. “I have been caught up in some unfortunate circumstances at first, but now someone … they have been caring for me properly, and they’ve kept me safe. All you need to do today, is to tell the truth, and then we can both go home.”

“Darling, I dare say it shan’t be so simple,” she whispered, and for the first time I spotted a crack in her steely demeanour. “Certain things I have to say today you do not know about, and perhaps you shall never again see your mother in the same light again. Not to mention that it might rattle the highest circles of this very establishment!”

“Mother, we’ve all done things in the war, things we shouldn’t have!” I whispered frantically because I really needed her to tell the truth, there was no way around it. “We were coerced, and you’ve made them understand that once before – this is why I’m attending this trial as a free man today. Just keep it in mind that you will tell the truth, the whole thing and nothing but, and I have it on good authority that Potter is ready to keep his part of the deal and testify on your behalf. Trust me – whatever it is, I can take it. I was there with you. If no one understands the gravity of our past circumstances, I do.”

She visibly gained her composure after that.

“On good authority, you say? You honestly believe we will be allowed to go home if I do this?”

I couldn’t help it. I glanced at Ron, my eyes darted towards him before they consulted my brain, and he stood there, tall, beautiful and anxious, with his eyes focused on me, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“Yes, Mother. I honestly believe that.”

“I see,” she said, looking pointedly in the same direction as I did. “Oh, I suppose if I can’t trust my own son, who can I trust? Brace yourself, my love, this is going to be a tedious journey.”

With these words, she turned towards the Wizengamot and told them with a gracious tilt of her head:

“I am now ready, esteemed ladies and gentlemen of the Wizengamot, to answer all and any of your questions.”

And thus began what was probably the most excruciating eighteen hours of my life. Merlin, she wasn’t exaggerating; God, no. There were points in her testimony when people felt compelled to leave, green in the face and all but fleeing, teams of Aurors were dispatched to immediately raid homes of highly-placed Ministry officials, complacent to betrayals and crimes beyond imagination, and the trial had to be paused several times for outbreaks of outrage and hysterical breakdowns.

When Potter came to the stand with his shocking testimony, the trial turned into proper pandemonium. The whole thing left me shaken to the core, wishing desperately that I could unhear some of the things that were the most barbaric and gruesome in nature.

But the end came at last. When Minister Shacklebolt spoke in front of the remaining crowd late at night, his voice was trembling.

“I hereby thank Madam Malfoy for her honest and detailed testimony. Let it serve as a warning to the future generations of wizards and witches that we must always stay alert and take every measure and precaution for such atrocities never to take place again,” he looked around the room at all the sombre, crying faces.

“Madam,” he turned toward my mother, “your bravery leaves me speechless. I personally thank you for the courage you’ve shown in the face of our greatest adversary, Lord Voldemort himself. Not many would have had your strength to come to the stand and speak honestly after all you’ve been put through. It is the understanding of the esteemed members of this judicial body that you were coerced into your actions under the threat to the lives and well-being of your family, and that you are not directly responsible for any of the suffering of which you testified here today. The Wizengamot authorised me to declare you a free woman, and your son a legitimate heir of the Malfoy and Black property, fully restored to you, with your wands to be returned to you with minimal limitations placed upon their use.”

The court exploded into a cacophony of voices after the verdict has been heard. My mother just became the very first person that had been found _not guilty_.

I still can’t believe it’s over!

Shacklebolt approaches us with my mother’s wand in his hand as soon as her cage dissolves around her.

“I believe this is yours, Madam. I hope when we meet again, it will be in more favourable circumstances.”

The way my mother embraces me… Merlin. Like she has only been kept standing upright by the thought of holding me again. I don’t ever recall being held so fiercely by her. I’ve got tears welling up to my eyes from the sheer intensity of her love, and I honestly hope they don’t spill.

“You were right!” she whispers frantically. “I still can’t quite believe you were right, my dear boy! I requested your presence because I was certain I would never see the light of day once this day came to an end. I so very much wanted to see you one last time, make sure that you were doing well… But, my dear _God_ , son, they let us go! They really let us go!”

Her tall frame feels so very frail in my arms, and I’ve never heard her whisper in such a frenzied tone before. It begins to worry me greatly. I suppose she is a lot like me: she takes on danger as if she has been born to fight and survive – but once it is all over, the consequences of her struggle come back to haunt her.

“Yes, they did, didn’t they?” I tell her, barely holding it together myself. “A very special person promised to me that they would, and I trust him implicitly. I will have to think of a very special way to thank him for keeping his word.”

“The love of your life?” she smiles thinly, knowingly, and wipes the rebellious tear that managed to sneak past my defences from my cheek.

“The love of my life,” I confirm with a smile. “Would you like to…”

But I turn around, and my smile falters. Ron is no longer there. The pang in my heart is sickening, resonating through my whole body as if I’ve just been hexed to the stomach. He left. How could he have left? My first thought is to rush behind him, drag him back, introduce him to my mother properly, and threaten him with every hellfire I can think of to never leave me again. But I feel the full weight of my mother’s frame on my shoulders and I realise that this is not the time. I can’t chase after Ron, no matter how much I want to. I have duties and responsibilities now, and I have to take care of my mother first. It would be a poor way to reward her for her love and her trust, if I just left her there.

“Never mind,” I speak quickly. “There will be a time and a place for that still. Let’s get you home first, shall we?”

It’s a credit to Granger and the army of _properly employed_ house-elves she sent over, that there are no traces of abandonment and neglect left in the manor. The grass has been mown meticulously, the swans appear fed, and the rooms are lit up and pristine, far more than the day we were forced to leave. All the traces of the Dark Lord and his followers ever residing here are long gone, and the place smells strangely… _clean_ , unnaturally so. And then I figure out that all the dark artefacts my father had been collecting so vigorously are gone as well, and with them the heaviness of the dark magic hanging in the air. The manor has never been more beautiful, grand and impressive. I finally got the home of my childhood back, the way I remembered it to be. There is only one problem: it no longer feels like home.

The rooms are too big, the ceilings too high, the furniture too grand, and the bathrooms are dark, luxurious and ancient. Nothing is remotely like the place where I feel truly at home. When I find myself sitting in my father’s old library, the smallest room I could find, sipping on a glass of finest Firewhiskey, I only have to close my eyes to feel the memories and the longing wash over me.

The tiny colourful bathroom, with that wonderful mirror and _eklectric_ shaver. The silly kitchen with the exploding micro-thingy and always smelling of food made with love. The little worn out couch, oh, that damn, little couch! I would give all the furniture of the Malfoy manor to be back on that couch again. And the bedroom with that terrible creaking frame and world’s most comfortable mattress… and my hissing Kneazles trying to sneak in at any time of the day!. And among all those treasures, like a true King to that tiny, priceless little kingdom, my Ron. I miss him terribly. This is where my home is now. With him.

Why on Earth did he leave? He’s not going to be difficult about it, surely? I mean, I know I’ve got a fortune now… and titles… and about a million new responsibilities… and all this bloody baggage that comes with my name. Gosh, it even scares me!

Can Ron Weasley, the most wonderful, most insecure man I know, possibly love Draco Malfoy, the heir to the Malfoy name and fortune, as much as he loved Draco Malfoy, the broken man he saved? I’m terrified to find out.

~

It’s been almost a week since I last saw him. Six days and eighteen hours, to be precise. Yeah, I’m counting, I’m that pathetic. I’ve been wandering around my life aimlessly ever since. I get up in the morning because I have to. I would probably stay home and wallow in my own sorrow but the testimony of Narcissa Malfoy has given the Auror Department months-worth to do, and Harry made it clear he needed me. So, I get up, rush to the raids and stake-outs madly enough to have my mother sending me Howlers for getting my pointer on that silly clock of hers stuck on “Mortal Peril” for hours at a time – and then I go home. I fear that bit more than all the raids and the stake-outs combined.

It’s so quiet in there. And cold. And it doesn’t smell like food anymore because I can’t be bothered with cooking. Kneazles eat their food raw and I… well, I’ve almost resorted to that as well. Cold take-out and crackers probably don’t count as cooking much. I try to exhaust myself during the day as much as I can. I just want to finish my lame evening meal, roll over and sleep, covered with a pair of Kneazles. It doesn’t always work out that way, because of, uhm, dreams – very colourful, most wonderful dreams in which I am very much not alone – but even when I wake up panting and covered in my own juices, I’m still exhausted in the morning, and no less alone.

I’d probably just give up if it wasn’t for the Kneazles. There’s always this acute moment of dread straight after I Apparate home, that they’ve been taken, that someone came to fetch them, and that this would truly be it, the end of the road. The end of all hope. Because, you see, the little furry monsters give me a glimmer of hope. I never thought I’d say that, but there you go. True, they always look extremely disappointed to see me Apparate home all by myself but once they’re done giving me their standard hissing disapproval, the big fat juicy steak never fails to put them in a more favourable mood. By the time I finish my meal, they usually resign themselves to the fate of spending another boring evening with the dumb Weazel, and they settle across my lap and around my neck respectively. They’re the only ones I can tell about my day. I dread the day when they’re gone.

Because it’s easy to leave me behind – I guess… it looks like it… I mean, it’s nearly been a week – but Kneazles are another thing entirely. No one in their right mind would abandon a Kneazle. Not only are the pure-blood, properly groomed Kneazles worth their weight in gold, they’re also supposed to be tied to one’s good fortune and destiny – and in the magical world, these things are not meant to be toyed about. One does not name them their _“most prized possession”_ just to leave them behind.

So, you see, I’m waiting. There’s still a tiny little chance that he will remember my existence while I take care of his Kneazles. I wonder if he will have enough courage to come and get them himself, or perhaps he’ll send one of his servants… yeah, that last thing probably. He appears to be terribly busy these days.

And how would I know that, you wonder? Well, the newspapers have been full of him ever since he’s been restored to his proper position of a wealthy socialite. His handsome face is staring at me from every newsstand, and those grey eyes always seem to follow me around. It’s hard to ignore all the gossip that goes around the office. He’s been seen at the part of the Diagon Alley that deals with expensive properties – where one Ms. Pansy Parkinson, very much single and very much eligible, happens to work. And the rumour has it that he visited the headquarters of the Quidditch Alliance recently, and had lunch with their very attractive secretary, one Daphne Greengrass. Yeah, he’s been keeping himself busy all right.

So about the Kneazles and that hope… it’s been pretty much empty to begin with, yeah? More along the lines of having a chance to see him one last time. I don’t expect we’ll be moving in the same circles anymore.

But, God, it hurts. I barely keep myself from strangling that dumb bimbo at the reception desk, collecting daily bets as to who he’s going to get engaged to. When Harry’s secretary gushed about his _“modern, oh-so-daring, sharp new hairdo”_ , I hissed out _“Yeah, well, it was made with love!”_ before I stormed away – and now the whole department of Auror birds think I’m a tad deranged.

Oh yeah, and I beat the crap out of Yaxley yesterday, when we picked him up in his hide-out. I heard about Draco’s lunch with the Greengrass wench an hour before the raid – and I just went kind of mental. I guess I took all of my anger and frustration out on that Death Eater crap of a human. Seriously, they had to unglue me off the sorry bastard, I was fully intent on making a tunnel from one side of his skull to the other with my fists. Harry looked worried when he sent me home for the day, and my knuckles are still raw. I wasn’t much up to using dittany. It reminds me too much of him.

But busted knuckles or not, I have no other vent for my pain and frustration. Did I know it was going to be that way? Yeah, I did. Did I know it was going to be so bad? Hell, no! Do I still think it was worth it? Always.

Oh, I suppose it’s time to go back home. Winter is coming and the days are getting shorter. It’s been properly dark for a while now, and I’m the last one at the office. But I’m not tempted to go home. Weekend lies ahead, and it’s going to be a proper void. I’m considering grabbing a pint at the Leaky, but I hate sitting all by myself – and these days I hate the company even more. Besides, Wiz and Lee must be waiting for me… well they’re the only ones, but these days I’m the only one they’ve got as well.

I Apparate back home and – nothing. Deadly silence meets me, and my heart sinks all the way down to my toes. So, it happened. And it happened while I was gone. I guess bravery was never his forte. I fill my lungs with the darkness, halfway hoping it would drown the pain – and something is off. Something is very off. There’s this… scent in the air I’ve not even noticed in the shock of not having the Kneazles meet me. Is it me, or does it smell like… _actual food_? Not the pot-noodles, no, but actual cooked and roasted food, the way my mum used to make, the way he…

My heart is suddenly drumming like a battle-drum under my ribs when I notice a thin line of light under the door to my kitchen. So, I have visitors… My hand trembles when it closes around the door-handle. _“Who’s on the other side of that door?”_ feels like the most important question humanity has yet to answer. Perhaps Hermione let herself in? Could Harry have told her about my outburst? Or it could be my mum, checking on me after the scare I’ve given her throughout the week. Oh, who am I fooling… The Kneazles would be screeching bloody murder unless it was….

Malfoy. He’s standing there in the middle of my tiny kitchen, spatula in one hand and the stupid sexy-waitress apron George had given me as a housewarming present tied around his neck. His arse, clad in Harry’s old jogging bottoms, is peeking out from under the apron like the world’s greatest temptation, and he’s the goddamn most beautiful sight I’ve seen in a while. Oh, make that ever. The Kneazles are sitting around him on their back paws, wagging their tails, and staring at him in reverence. I suspect I don’t look much different.

“Weas-ley, there you go,” he says, and I wonder why he’s saying my name all the way funny and where goes _what_ – when he picks up the remains of a big steak that still has a big part of the bone attached, and feeds them to the Kneazles. To Wiz. And Lee. Wiz-Lee. Oh, my dear God, I’ve never… Merlin, murder me now. I must be the dumbest ‘ _hooman’_ alive. No wonder the Kneazles look down on me. Even after all these years, the depth of my own stupidity sometimes manages to astonish me. He named his Kneazles after me. His most prized possession.

“Evening, love! You’re late,” he finally notices me and approaches me across the floor to give me a peck on my cheek so casually, as if he never left, as if he wasn’t gone for nearly a week – six days, eighteen-and-a-half excruciating hours, to be precise – as if he had always meant to come back. So, I’m just standing there for a while, waiting to wake up. This… can’t be real. It must be another dream; a really warped and cruel one. I can’t be so lucky. I’m _never_ that lucky.

“Do sit down, babe, I won’t be a minute,” he tells me, and that sweet smile is as stunning as it is cheeky. I never thought I’d see that smile again. I kind of fall into the nearest chair after that. “Pork chops with mashed potatoes and some greens. You like?”

“I like everything about you,” I blurt out like a proper, stunned Neanderthal. “Even the green bits.”

He chuckles softly, and that adorable pink colour, creeping up his neck and his cheeks tells me he was very much hoping for this answer. And that bit of colour makes me bold, bolder perhaps, than I should have been.

“I thought… I thought I’d never see you again,” I stutter. “I thought you were gone for good. You were gone for a week! _Not a word_ for six days and 18 hours and… and some change,” I finish with a mumble because I finally realise how very much I sound like a proper clingy, immature fool. But I’ve got a right to be angry, I do!

“Not one note,” I tell him bitterly. “Not one. Not ‘ _I want my Kneazles back’_ , or _‘I miss you’_ , or _‘What was I thinking?’_ , not even _‘Sod off, Weazel!’_ – nothing, not a single line, and I would have even welcomed that last one. I’d have known you didn’t simply forget about me then. And I thought you did. What else was I supposed to think? And then you dance in here and expect me to… eat… and have conversation… and all those other impossible things! When I’ve missed you so much I can barely breathe let alone talk!” I finally howl out all my pain and disappointment, and relief and mad, stupid love my heart is still bursting with.

And then my lap is suddenly full of him. His legs wrap around mine unceremoniously, and those heavenly lips find me… And just like that, he’s forgiven. What did you think I was going to do? I grew up poor: when you find a good thing, don’t question where it came from, you just hold onto it and never let it go again. I forgave him for every wrong he’s ever done to me the second I saw that thin line of light coming from under the door. And when his lips met mine, eager, fresh, and utterly enchanting, I _forgot_ all about being wronged entirely. Wronged? Who wronged me? What are you on about? Surely a man owning such ungodly lips can’t possibly _wrong_ anyone! Oh, god it’s unreal how good he tastes… I swear I’ll cuff him to the couch if he tries to leave again.

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispers into our kiss. “I’m so very sorry, my love. Mother was quite ill and exhausted, and there was a tonne of affairs to put in order. And I needed a week to think on how to repay you. I’ve bought us the loveliest house overlooking the park I could find… Kneazles could very well use some green surface to stretch their legs, you know! And since it just happens to be right next to that wonderful café with the best brioche in town you took me to on our first date – oh shush, it was totally a date! – so I bought that, too. But, of course, that was never going to be enough,” he kisses me sweetly while I’m still struggling to catch a bit of breath. Something, something... about some villa and a café? Right...

“I couldn’t help noticing your affinity to a certain _ghastly_ colour… which just happens to be the colour of a certain unfortunate Quidditch team. So, I’ve decided to give them a leg up. I’ve bought us the Chudley Cannons, my love, and I’ve hired Oliver Wood to coach them. To be honest, I’ve always wanted to own a Quidditch team – though I have to confess that if it was up to me I might not have picked _that_ very one. It’s in a terrible state, and the players seem to be afraid of the Snitch – but I reckoned you wouldn’t mind a chance to watch them improve from up close,” he smiles wickedly. God, that cheeky smile… I’ve missed it madly.

Obviously, I have no idea what he’s on about because my head is all too busy spinning somewhere up there, in the universe of Happy. Did he just say he bought me the Chudley Cannons and Oliver Wood? Nah, I must have heard him wrong. Where was I going to put Oliver Wood?! Have you seen the man?! He’s, like, four feet across the shoulders!

“So, _that_ was going to be my _“thank you”_ gift to you. But then I realised that fell short as well,” he looks at me dreamily, and I’m just kind of devouring the beloved silver eyes from up close. Was he always so damn beautiful? What on earth is he even on about?! I’ve got the best _‘thank you’_ right here, in my arms!

“It was not enough because I wanted to give you the best of me,” he tells me quietly. “When I first got here, I was in a bad state. I don’t know if I could have lasted hours, let alone days out there. One could easily say you got the very worst of me. Yet from the first moment to the last, you treated me as if I was precious, as if I mattered, and as if you very much wanted to keep me. No one’s ever wanted to keep me before,” he caresses my face gently and quickly kisses a few freckles off my nose, as if he wanted to make sure they were real.

“Oh, shush, they’re delicious,” he chuckles softly at the sight of my scrunched-up face. “As are you, Ron. It took me a while – and a long conversation with my _very astute_ mother, who happens to strongly believe that my happiness should come first – but I finally realised what was under my very nose: the best of me was right here, in this wonderful little place filled with love, right by your side. You taught me how to cook – you even have my Kneazles drooling on your toes – and you’re a proud owner of the most beautiful mirror and the uglies, most comfortable fucking couch in the whole of England. There’s nowhere I’d rather be, and I’ve got nothing better to give you than this, myself. I’m the best of me when I’m with you, my love,” he says simply before his lips find mine again, and I just melt onto the fucking floor.

You know what – fuck food! I’ve got all the nourishment I need right here in my arms.

“I happen to have a few conditions, Mr. Malfoy,” I mumble, and I bite down on his lip gently. “I’m fine with the house, Merlin knows we could use a bit more rooms to, erm, baptise – but I am not going anywhere without this fine, if rather godawful, couch! And there will be no ogling Oliver Wood’s – admittedly – fine arse on my watch! And last but not least: I happen to believe you’ve once again been terribly evil, and needlessly cruel, and I’m going to have to see that _‘best of you’_ up close to believe any of such deceitful rubbish. I have a good idea of taking you to bed, and giving you a chance to show me that _‘best of you’_ you keep advertising. How about it, my love? Do we have a deal?”

His eyes light up like molten silver, and when that delectable arse envelops the rabid bulge in between my legs like the devil’s snare, he has to swallow my desperate obscenity with a delightful kiss:

“Oh, yes, my fiery one. I promise – only the best of me. Now, how about you do what you do best, my love: go on and _dazzle me_...”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to show your appreciation for the author via kudos/comments below. ♥
> 
> This story is part of Ron/Draco Fest 2019, a currently ongoing anonymous fest. The author will be revealed in late March.


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